


The Collected Hurts of DS Jones

by AZombieWrites (EgorStandish)



Category: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgorStandish/pseuds/AZombieWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times DS Jones was whumped and 1 time he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Obligated Concussion

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter One: The Obligated Concussion  
> Summary: Held in a Priest hole with no way out, a flickering light and a concussed Detective Sergeant are DCI John Barnaby’s only companions.

John Barnaby’s only companion was an indecisive light, the bulb flickering on and off at regular intervals, its shadows painted across the walls of the Priest hole like ugly graffiti. It was a small, empty, confined space, the walls seemingly closing in, the room becoming even smaller, cramped. Barnaby knew it was all in his mind, but psychology degree be damned, the claustrophobia was stripping away his common sense. Cold and uncomfortable, the room was more like a prison than a sanctuary. Not the kind of place you would want to spend an extended amount of time. The decision taken away from Barnaby; led into the room under false pretences, the camouflaged entrance shut behind him before he understood what was happening.

He thought a way out would be simple. Call Jones. But his phone had lacked a signal, dead and buried just when Barnaby had needed it most. Pounding his fists against the wall in the hope of gaining someone’s attention had been futile, more painful than useful. He’d then spent what had felt like hours searching the walls, every little nook and cranny; the mechanism that would open either exit proving too difficult for Barnaby to find.

Now stuck with no way out, Barnaby slammed an open palm against the wall, grunting in pain and frustration. His mood growing even sourer, he decided to let it go, to sit down and wait, confident Jones would find him . . . eventually. Hopefully before Barnaby died of dehydration, starvation or possible boredom. Bum on the cold floor, back against the wall, Barnaby fought the sudden urge to panic when the light blinked out, hesitating a few seconds too long before flickering back on. It was playing with him, Barnaby was sure of it. Perhaps it was a feeble attempt to amuse itself, or possibly a successful attempt to scare the room’s occupant. It was beginning to work, the panic starting to churn in the pit of Barnaby’s gut.

A glance at his watch left Barnaby cursing under his breath, the sound of his own voice breaking through the thick silence in the room. The minutes were dragging by, a heavy weight clinging to the hands of time, slowing it down to an exaggeratedly slow pace. Boredom was going to take his sanity before the claustrophobia. He needed a distraction, something to keep his mind from dressing itself up in a straight jacket, the lack of stimulation giving it free rein to taunt and torment him. 

Barnaby heard them first, feet shuffling along the floor outside the Priest hole, voices complaining, the words muted. It wasn’t encouraging, Barnaby worried they had come for him, deciding to get rid of the evidence before help arrived. He could talk them out of it. He had a psychology degree. The door opened, its base scraping along the floor, like nails on a chalkboard. The sound grated on Barnaby’s nerves, squeezing the back of his teeth before letting go. He stood up quickly, narrowing his eyes in a way that would allow him to see the figures standing in the doorway, their shadows stretched out before them on the floor of the Priest hole.

They hadn’t come for Barnaby. Instead, bringing him something that would only make things a lot worse, a lot more fearful, the need to escape suddenly more urgent. Jones, slumped between the two men, his weight bending them forward, backs hunched at the effort it took to keep his sergeant upright. 

“I believe this belongs to you.” 

With a combined effort, accompanied by grunts of complaint, they pushed Jones forward, allowing him to stumble into the room, his knees buckling beneath him. In hindsight, Barnaby knew he should have rushed the two men, an effort to escape the room, to raise an alarm that would bring in the cavalry. But a singular emotion took control of everything, dominating his every move; he had to stop Jones from making a painful introduction with the floor.

It wasn’t an easy thing to prevent; the light deciding a joke was in order, something to break the tension, turning itself off at a most inopportune time. Barnaby didn’t think it was that funny. The door closed. Blacker than black, the darkness began to choke him, Jones slamming into him not helping at all; a breathless grunt ripped from Barnaby’s chest as they fell to the floor. Jones’s warm breath ghosted across the side of Barnaby’s face, the gentle but persistent heat radiating from his sergeant’s body embraced him. Something dripped onto his face, a light patter of something wet and sticky, a strong odour of copper. Blood. Not all was right with Ben Jones.

“Jones?”

Barnaby didn’t get a response, not that he really expected one. With a determined grip on his sergeant’s shoulders, his fingers pressing into relaxed flesh, Barnaby pushed upward, shifting Jones’s weight, rolling him away to the left and onto the floor. He knew he couldn’t do much more, not in the dark; sure the light from his phone wouldn’t be enough. With the palm of his hand resting against Jones’s chest, feeling it rise and fall, Barnaby waited. Patiently at first, thinking the light would blink into existence after a few seconds and then impatiently when it refused to co-operate with him. Never before had he dealt with such a temperamental inanimate object. 

As though insulted and with a need to prove itself, the light blinked, once, twice, finally deciding to stay on. Barnaby grimaced, the transition between dark and light causing a sharp stab of pain at the back of his eyes. He lifted himself off the floor, tense muscles beginning to relax and turned to face his sergeant. Barnaby didn’t like what he saw. The right side of Jones’s face covered in blood, a blatant contrast against his pale flesh. A gash so deep, you could see bone, ran almost half the length of the right eyebrow, blood still flowing from the open wound, a small rivulet. Whoever had hit Jones, had hit him hard, harder than would have been necessary. 

If they had split Jones’s skull, bone cracked beneath flesh . . . they were in serious trouble, a life threatening situation Barnaby would find difficult to escape.

Breath caught in his throat, Barnaby struggled to swallow, panic clenching his chest in a painful unrelenting grip. He should have been more cautious in what he wanted; a distraction given to him, just not the kind of distraction he had wanted. However, distracted he now was, no longer claustrophobic or bored. Instead panicked and worried. Muscles cramped with tension, Barnaby took a deep breath and then another to calm himself. He had to think. Basic first aid, he needed to go through the list.

Leaning forward, palm restless against Jones’s chest, Barnaby took a closer look at the wound. No dents, at least they hadn’t caved his head in, Barnaby grateful for the small things. There were no other outward signs of a skull fracture, but that didn’t mean Jones’s skull, as thick as it was, hadn’t suffered a more serious injury. Moving on, breathing wasn’t impaired, another good sign but something Barnaby would have to continue to monitor. He reached forward, placing his hand against the side of his sergeant’s face, skin dry and warm. Shock was yet to settle in. Give it time thought Barnaby.

Jones shifted his head away, opening his eyes, the movement slow, hesitant, a groan escaping his lips.

“Ben?”

Voice slurred, Jones asked, “What . . . happened?”

Not a good sign, slurred speech an indication that Jones might have suffered a concussion. But Barnaby would take a concussion over a skull fracture any day. 

“I was hoping you could tell me,” said Barnaby.

Jones raised a hand, and like a drunk reaching for their next drink, the limb was uncoordinated, a failed attempt to explore his injury, missing it entirely. “What happened?”

“Or not.” Barnaby resisted the urge to roll his eyes, adding irritation to worry wasn’t going to help, not a good combination, something that wouldn’t sit well in the pit of his stomach. 

Lifting his head off the floor, Jones’s pallor grew even paler and he let it fall back with a soft thump and a muted groan. Barnaby grimaced in sympathy and hoped, silently, that Jones hadn’t eaten a heavy breakfast; the strong odour of vomit wouldn’t help either of them, not in this small space. The smell of blood was already clinging to the back of his throat, causing his own stomach to churn.

“Ben.”

“Sir?”

“This is going to hurt,” said Barnaby, knowing that Jones would already feel as though his skull had been split in two by a very blunt axe and what he was about to do wasn’t going to make Jones feel any better.

Not willing to strip down and use his clothes for a bleed that was already slowing to a trickle, Barnaby resorted to using a barely used handkerchief. Without any further warning, he pressed it down against the cut on Jones’s forehead, applying pressure; even a trickle needed stopping. The response was immediate. Jones attempted to curl in on himself: knees drawn toward his chest, arms raised to protect himself from more pain, face screwed up, teeth gritted, skin – if it were possible – going a shade or two paler as he tried to turn away from Barnaby.

And Barnaby couldn’t watch any of it, seeing the pain on his sergeant’s face just made it all the more difficult. He pushed forward, forcing Jones’s face away, allowing him to turn away from him, rolling onto his left side. If Jones hadn’t looked so pathetic, his limbs so confused, the situation would be almost laughable . . . almost. 

When Jones’s breathing became harsh, chest heaving, Barnaby eased off. Removing the handkerchief, Barnaby bent over Jones’s curled form and checked the wound. It hadn’t stopped completely, but it had lessened. Not in the mood to go through that again, not yet anyway, Barnaby sat back and placed the palm of his hand against the back of Jones’s skull, trying to assure the younger man that it was okay. Jones flinched away from him, associating Barnaby’s touch as a source of pain.

Barnaby sighed. The day hadn’t turned out at all, as he had expected.

.  
.  
.

His only companions were a flickering light, still stubborn in nature; you could set your watch by it and a concussed sergeant confused beyond belief, his reactions slow and methodical, his inquisitive questions becoming repetitive, irritating. And through it all, Barnaby’s worry grew, like an unwanted tumour, nagging at his insides, telling him he should be concerned.

After an unsuccessful attempt to use Jones’s phone, Barnaby had moved to the other side of the room, sitting on the floor facing Jones, a better position to keep a watchful eye on his sergeant. Sleeping or unconscious, Barnaby wasn’t sure, didn’t want to disturb Jones to find out either way. As long as he was comfortable, breathing easy and not in pain. Jones had complained that his head had hurt, wanting to know why, asking the question numerous times, repeatedly; concussion stopping him from remembering what he had asked only minutes earlier. Shock still hadn’t set in, Barnaby wasn't surprised, Jones’s body probably forgetting that it was injured. At least the bleeding had stopped. 

He held his breath when Jones sighed, hoping with guilt that he didn’t wake up. Jones would ask the same questions, and Barnaby couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t answer in anger or frustration. Turned out, irritation and worry hadn’t been a good combination; the mixture of emotions had left him feeling sick to the stomach. If the circumstances were different, if he could step out of the room for just a few minutes, get his mood back under control, regain the patience required to deal with someone concussed. He had a degree in psychology; he should be able to do this.

A shift in Jones’s position told Barnaby that his sergeant was waking up. Barnaby clenched his teeth in anticipation. Jones opened his eyes, his stare vacant, his gaze unmoving, still as death. Seconds passed. And then he blinked. Barnaby hadn’t even realised he’d been holding his breath, fear biting painfully into his chest. He couldn’t take much more of this. He had to find the way out.

The light, perfect timing as usual, switched itself off. 

Barnaby closed his eyes, pursed his lips and shook his head, more in disbelief than frustration. He could hear Jones moving about, no doubt trying to get up . . . again. Like a broken record, everything repeated.

“Jones,” said Barnaby. “You’ve got a concussion. Don’t move.”

“What-”

“You’ve got a concussion.”

“-happened?”

Barnaby counted to ten. If he waited long enough, Jones would forget he had asked a question. Not this time.

“Sir?”

“You’ve got a concussion.”

“Is that why my head hurts?”

“Yes.”

“I hit my head?”

“No,” said Barnaby. “Someone else hit you.”

“What happened?”

Barnaby gritted his teeth, his jaw beginning to ache. “You’ve got a concussion, Jones.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” 

The light began to spasm – probably in response to the conversation – turning itself on . . . off . . . on . . . off . . . on. 

Barnaby could feel a headache beginning to nag at the back of his eyes. If the persistent mood swing of the light bulb was making his head hurt, well, it must be making things even worse for Jones. Barnaby would break the bulb, put the thing out of its misery but he needed it, unable to keep an eye on Jones without it. 

Speaking of Jones. Barnaby opened his eyes to find his sergeant sitting up, legs crossed, elbows on his knees, head resting in the palms of his hands; looking bloody miserable.

They had to get out.

Standing up, Barnaby turned to face the wall, eyes searching once more for the mechanism that would open either door. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the worry gnawing at his stomach. If he couldn’t find it . . . he didn’t want to think about the consequences. Behind him, Jones was muttering to himself, voice so low Barnaby couldn’t make out what he was saying. But he could make a safe guess. 

Fingertips bruised and scratched, Barnaby’s search ended in failure. He couldn’t find the way out. Hope depleting, he was beginning to believe there was no way out, sure that another search would only end the same way. They weren’t getting out of here anytime soon. The only thing left to do, the only thing he could do was wait. Earlier, he had been willing to wait for Jones, confident of a rescue, before his situation had become grim. Maybe someone at the office will notice their lack of return, common sense telling them that something might actually be wrong. Taking a sitting position opposite Jones, Barnaby settled in for what he hoped wasn’t a long wait.

Time passed . . . slowly . . . so excruciatingly slow it was almost painful.

.  
.  
.

John Barnaby’s only companions were a light bulb suffering from aggressive mood swings and a concussed detective sergeant who had become eerily quiet. He’d been watching Jones closely, looking for any indication that he was getting worse. He wasn’t. But he also hadn’t moved, still in the same position he’d been in an hour ago; head still in the palms of his hands, fingers digging deep into his scalp, knuckles white with the effort. It was obvious Jones was in a lot of pain. Feeling utterly helpless, Barnaby looked away, gaze roaming the walls, looking for something he might have missed.

If it weren’t for the risk of repetitive questions, Barnaby would engage Jones in conversation, an attempt to distract him. A conversation though, wouldn’t do much to ease the pain. It might pass the time. But would it be worth it, listening to Jones asking the same questions. He decided that it would be worth it, a sudden need to hear Jones speak, anything that would let Barnaby know that his sergeant’s condition wasn’t on the decline.

“Ben?”

There was no reply from Jones, body still, head down, fingers holding his head in an uncomfortable embrace. Like a nagging wife, the worry returned. Barnaby leaned forward, pressing his own fingers against Jones’s knee, trying to get a response in return. He could feel a tremor rumbling through the limb. Jones must have been struggling to hold it together. Barnaby drew back his hand, laying it his own lap.

“Ben.”

Still no answer.

With a tone full of authority, Barnaby said, “Jones! Answer me.”

Jones lifted his head up, arms falling to his sides, the movements a reaction more than a need to respond. The blood on the side of Jones’s face had dried, cracking in places, like a facial mask left too long to dry. The area around the wound had turned into a fine collection of dark purples. Not a pretty sight. Gaze still vacant, Jones stared straight ahead, looking through Barnaby. It was unnerving, a shiver running the length of Barnaby’s spine.

“Ben?”

Patience lacking, Barnaby waited. It took a few minutes for Jones to regain his focus, his gaze shifting as he took in his surroundings. Again, Barnaby waited, this time for the inevitable. He didn’t have to wait long.

“What happened?”

Smiling, Barnaby said, “You’ve got a concussion, Jones.”

“And you find that funny, Sir,” said Jones.

Now there was a different response. Things were looking up.

“Not at all.”

“What happened?”

“If I tell you, you’ll forget. Concussion and all that. I’ll explain when you’re up to it,” said Barnaby.

“Where are we?”

With reluctance, Barnaby said, “We’re in a Priest hole and I can’t find the way out.”

Jones frowned, tilting his head to the side. He lifted his left arm and pointed toward the door Barnaby couldn’t open. “Try the light switch.”

Barnaby’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’m sorry.”

“My head feels like it’s broken,” said Jones as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, reaching upward, hands cradling his head. “And I think I’m going to be sick.”

The light went out, a heavy cloak of darkness returning to the room. 

To Barnaby, a light switch had been too obvious, the device added to the room a number of years after construction. He hadn’t connected the dots, lateral thinking not working on this occasion. Someone had obviously, or not so obviously to Barnaby, replaced the original opening device with the light switch. No wonder the bloody light didn’t work properly.

Feeling like a complete idiot and thankful for Jones’s lack of short term memory, Barnaby stood up and made his way to the wall, fumbling along in the dark until he found the light switch. He hesitated, imagination out of control, an ominous feeling of being electrocuted going off like a flash bulb inside his skull. Closing his eyes, Barnaby took a deep breath and flicked the light switch, snapping his fingers away as quickly as possible. Nothing. Not even the sound of a lock disengaging.

Then it happened, a subtle shift in the door’s position, a sliver of light entering the room. The light flickered on, a poorly timed attempt to say ‘I told you so’. Barnaby ignored it. He pulled the door open, gritting his teeth as it scratched against the floor. He stepped out of the room, snatching his phone out of his pocket. A short and to the point phone call assured Barnaby that rescue was now on its way. Stepping back into the room, he closed the door; no need to let the suspects know he’d found the way out.

“Help is on the way, Jones,” said Barnaby.

Jones responded by gagging on the bile rising in his throat. He spat it out and muttered, “Why? What happened?”

.  
.  
.

Barnaby’s only companions were a decisive fluorescent light and a heavily medicated detective sergeant, the pain and nausea becoming too much for Jones, intervention required to ease both symptoms. Jones was now sleeping comfortably in a hospital bed, wound stitched, face cleaned, colour returning to his flesh. Barnaby, calm and back in control, had stayed with his sergeant, travelling back in the ambulance, refusing to leave the emergency cubicle when asked. 

He would stay until Jones returned to the land of the living, marbles intact; he owed his sergeant an explanation. A conversation that would explain everything . . . or though Barnaby intended to leave out the fact that he’d had trouble finding his way out of the Priest hole, a concussed detective showing him the exit.

No. Jones didn’t need to know that small, insignificant, piece of information.


	2. The Mandatory Stab Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A witness refuses to cooperate; too old or too stubborn to be helpful, DCI John Barnaby isn’t sure. But when she takes a dislike to Barnaby, things quickly turn ugly.

Sitting in a living room overflowing with colourful balls of knitting yarn, DCI John Barnaby attempted to evoke a conversational response from the elderly Mrs. Wellington. As a potential witness she wasn’t very forthcoming, more forgetful than helpful, her manner toward Barnaby aggressive. She was singular in her attitude though, DS Jones receiving the kind of attention that caused embarrassment, Jones’s body language becoming more awkward with every passing moment. Her own body language explained almost nothing to Barnaby; it gave him no insight on how to handle her, only that she fancied his sergeant, brazen enough to show her feelings. 

Mrs. Wellington – bifocals too big for her face – continued to stare unflinchingly back at Barnaby, an obvious refusal to answer any more of his questions. They needed to change tactics, find a way to get her to talk. Of course, anything physical was out of the question. . . Barnaby made a quick and decisive decision. He would use her abrasive infatuation against her, allow Jones to take the lead, let him talk his way into a more productive and informative conversation. His sergeant could succeed where Barnaby was obviously failing, and failing miserably. 

He watched as she made another subtle glance toward Jones; Mrs. Wellington’s gaze roaming, grazing, before finally settling, Jones crossing his legs in response, his facial expressions working overtime. When laughter threatened to expose itself, Barnaby gritted his teeth, his lips pressing together in a thin line, shutting down the laugh before it could become anything more. Mrs. Wellington turned her head – good hearing – her gaze returning to Barnaby. She narrowed her eyes, forehead creasing, her suspicion obvious.

Putting on a false front of stupidity, Barnaby smiled and said, “A cup of tea, Mrs. Wellington?”

“Are you asking or demanding, Mr. Barnaby?”

“Asking, Mrs. Wellington,” said Barnaby, spying in his peripheral a look of confusion spreading across Jones’s face but thankfully, Jones kept his mouth shut. “My sergeant looks as though he could do with one.”

Mrs. Wellington smiled, the shine gone from her yellow teeth, wrinkles spreading. “He looks as though he needs more than a cup of tea.”

“He does like to dunk a biscuit or two in his tea.” 

“I wasn’t referring to a biscuit,” said Mrs. Wellington.

Jones gagged, quickly covering up his response with a long running cough. Under the scrutiny of Mrs. Wellington and Barnaby, Jones stood up and stepped away from the lounge, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the witness. A protective barrier of space, an open doorway behind him, a quick exit to the front door.

Barnaby couldn’t help himself, “What would you suggest, Mrs. Wellington?”

Not expecting such an answer, Mrs. Wellington turned back to stare at Barnaby, her mouth opening to speak, hesitating before suggesting, “A large piece of soft, moist, sponge cake with fresh cream filling. He needs more weight on his bones . . . a girl likes to get a good solid grip. . .” 

Barnaby could tell Jones was thinking about doing a runner. His sergeant’s body language was tense, face blossoming with embarrassment, hands covering the most intimate part of his body. If Jones ran screaming from the room now, they wouldn’t get the answers needed to solve a violent murder.

“Tea and cake it is then,” said Barnaby, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Knees cracking, Mrs. Wellington stood up and adjusted her bra, pushing sagging breasts upward, shaping them into a better position. She didn’t seem to notice, or care, when they fell back toward her knees. Walking away from Barnaby, she moved closer to Jones, muttering something that caused Jones’s flesh to turn an ugly shade of green. 

Jones sagged with relief when Mrs. Wellington disappeared into the kitchen. He leaned forward, palms against his thighs and took a deep breath. “I feel sick.”

“Is that any way to talk about the elderly, Jones?”

“She may look old, Sir, but she’s far from it,” said Jones, standing upright, a normal colour returning to his skin. “I think it best if I wait in the car, Sir.”

“You need to be more forceful, Jones.”

“I don’t hit women, Sir.”

Barnaby smiled and patted the area of the lounge Jones had vacated moments earlier, a silent order for Jones to return to his seat. Reluctantly, Jones moved forward, his movements slow, sitting once more beside Barnaby but he shifted forward again, onto the edge of the lounge, body ready and willing to escape.

“Why am I getting tea and cake?” said Jones.

“I want you to take the lead, Jones,” Barnaby leaned back, making himself more comfortable, surrendering leadership to his sergeant. “And be a little more forceful. Knowing Mrs. Wellington . . . she’ll like that.”

“Forceful . . . Sir?”

“The nice approach isn’t working.”

“You want me to be the bad cop?”

“Yes.”

“Why me?”

Narrowing his eyes, Barnaby turned in his seat.

“Why me . . . Sir?”

“Because she likes you, Jones,” said Barnaby, noticing the green tinge returning to Jones’s skin. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for his sergeant, deciding to make up for it later with a pint at the pub.

“She’s almost as old as my Gran.”

“And, I’m sure, if she were twenty years younger--”

“Thirty . . . three years younger, Sir,” said Jones. “At least.”

“Yes . . . of course.”

“How is being forceful with someone who . . .”

“Thinks you’re fit,” said Barnaby.

“How is being forceful going to help,” said Jones. “Shouldn’t I be nice to her?”

“You want to flirt with Mrs. Wellington, Jones?”

“What? No. I just . . .”

“Trust me, Jones. I’ve been married longer than you.”

“I’m not married, Sir.”

“Exactly,” said Barnaby. “Does that not tell you something?”

Jones shifted in his seat, adjusting his tie, features looking pale and ill. 

“You look fine, Jones.”

Mrs. Wellington returned with a small tray, the three top buttons of her shirt now open. Sat on the tray were a single cup of tea and a plate overflowing with sponge cake. Barnaby raised an eyebrow at the sight, no tea and cake for him then. He glanced sideways at Jones, noticed the look of fear on his sergeant’s face and used an elbow to nudge Jones forward. It took a second, more forceful nudge, to get Jones up and moving.

“Let me help you with that, Mrs. Wellington,” said Jones, fingers trembling as he stood up and reached for the tray, gaze refusing to go where Mrs. Wellington so obviously wanted it to go. 

Mrs. Wellington’s fingers crept forward, a spider hunting its prey, catching masculine fingers before they could escape. She held tight, Jones taking a few seconds too many to snatch his hands away, the tray falling and bouncing onto the coffee table. Quick reflexes from Mrs. Wellington saved both tea and cake, something she’d obviously done before; Jones not the first younger man she’d hit on. 

Barnaby closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. Never send a boy to do a man’s job; not that Jones was still a boy, far from it in fact and old enough to know better. The man had faced dangerous criminals on many occasions, putting his life on the line to save others. However, when it came to something like this. . . Jones seemed to have something against old people, the thought of the elderly partaking in coitus. Must have walked in on his grandparent’s giving each other a good old-fashioned rogering. Poor sod.

Mrs. Wellington may have been old enough to be Jones’s grandmother but it wasn’t as though she was trying to suggest an evening of dinner, wine and sex. Then again. Barnaby swallowed; suddenly glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of her attention. It was going to take more than a pint for Jones to get over this interview; two pints in a pub full of women his own age.

“Sorry, Mrs. Wellington,” said Jones. “I didn’t . . .”

“Call me Bertha.”

“Of course, Mrs. Wellington.”

“Bertha.”

Jones smiled, “Bertha.”

Returning the smile, Bertha sat down, knees together, hands in her lap. Her eyes sparkled, her bad attitude melting. 

Gotcha, thought Barnaby.

.  
.  
.

“It’s a simple question, Mrs. Wellington,” said Jones, his frustration beginning to show. “Did you see anyone pass by your cottage on Tuesday night?”

Tilting her head, Bertha pointed toward her bifocals and said, “Not with these, no.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Such as?”

“A car, a bicycle, footsteps, anything that might suggest someone was passing by your house?”

“On their way to kill poor Mr. Hammond you mean?”

“Yes,” said Jones.

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” said Jones. “There’s only one way into Mr. Hammond’s cottage and that’s past your cottage. The killer would have passed here sometime between the hours of 7pm and 11pm. You didn’t hear anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

It had taken Jones thirty minutes to drag that small amount of information out of Bertha, as difficult as pulling teeth from someone with a dental phobia. Still, it was more than Barnaby had managed to get. Interview over and ready to get the hell out of there, Barnaby stood up. Jones noticed, standing quickly, notebook and pen already on the way to their respectful resting place.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wellington,” said Barnaby. “You’ve been a tremendous help to the investigation.”

“Really, Mr. Barnaby.”

“No, not really.”

Jones didn’t bother to hide his smile.

“You’re not a very nice man, Mr. Barnaby,” said Bertha.

“I get that a lot,” said Barnaby as he began to move toward the door. “We’ll find our own way out. Jones!”

Jones didn’t need to be told twice, quickly following Barnaby out of the room.

“I’m not surprised.” Bertha turned toward his sergeant, her angry gaze following Jones. “And what about you, Mr. Jones? Are you just as unpleasant?”

“Only when asked,” said Barnaby, stopping and turning back toward Bertha. He didn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression about Jones, especially when his sergeant was only following orders.

“I see.”

“I don’t think you do, Mrs. Wellington. This is a murder investigation.” Barnaby narrowed his eyes, suddenly getting an idea of what Bertha Wellington was really like. “This is all a game to you, isn’t it? You played with me. You wanted me to think you were old, slow, and dim witted. And I think you played with sergeant Jones. You don’t fancy him at all. You just like to embarrass people, watch their reactions. So, tell me. . . Bertha. Did you enjoy yourself?”

Mrs. Wellington stood up, hands held behind her back and said, “Cigarettes and booze makes one look so much older than they actually are, and yes, detective Barnaby, I did enjoy myself. Sergeant Jones makes for a wonderful toy. If he had followed me home, I would have kept him.”

Everything became clear as Barnaby moved back into the room, closer to Mrs. Wellington. She hadn’t heard or seen anything because there hadn’t been anything to see or hear. She had killed Hammond. 

“Did Mr. Hammond follow you home?”

“No.”

Jones, quick to catch on, stepped up beside him, notebook and pen back in his hands, and said, “Did you kill Mr Hammond, Bertha?”

“Yes, I killed him. Mr. Hammond wasn’t a pleasant man,” said Bertha. “Very unlikable.” 

“Why?”

“I just told you, sergeant. He was unpleasant. Not my type at all.”

“Refused your advances, did he?” said Barnaby.

“You’re not as slow as you look,” said Bertha. “Just slow to work it out.”

“Perhaps we should sit back down,” said Barnaby.

“I killed him. What more do you need to know?”

Barnaby glanced to his left, nodding to Jones, silently telling him to make the arrest, not realising that taking his eyes off Bertha Wellington wasn’t a very good idea. The only warning Barnaby received was the look of surprise spreading across Jones’s face, an expression quickly replaced by one of determination. Barnaby looked back toward Mrs. Wellington, his own surprise hard to hide.

Mrs. Wellington was charging toward Barnaby, a knitting needle in her right hand, the light glinting off the metal.

Unsure if Jones was aware of the metallic make of the knitting needle, Barnaby tried to shout a warning but it was too late. Jones didn’t stop to think, he reacted, dropping his notebook and pen and stepping in front of Barnaby, arms reaching out to stop Bertha in mid-step. That’s when things did begin to slow down, a snail pace refusing to return to a more normal speed. Barnaby reached for Jones, attempting to move him out of harm’s way. It was the wrong thing to do, his touch distracting, Jones hesitating.

Bertha screamed, the sound hollow, painful, as she stabbed the needle through the air. The metal needle went straight through Jones’s right hand, forcing a grunt of surprise out of Jones, the sound quickly turning to one of pain. Jones pulled his hand away and off the knitting needle, blood dripping from the sharpened tip. The squelching sound made Barnaby cringe in sympathy, his stomach rolling over and playing dead.

She struck a second time, failing this time in her attempt to create more damage, more pain. Jones, no longer caring about her age or gender, grabbed her wrist, twisting it until she screamed, not letting up until she dropped the knitting needle. He pulled Bertha’s arm behind her back, pushing her up against the edge of the lounge, forcing her forward, bending her over and keeping her down. With Mrs. Wellington no longer a threat, Jones shook his right hand, blood flying in all directions.

“Jones?”

His face tight with pain, Jones let go of Bertha, taking a step back.

Barnaby quickly took over, taking Jones’s cuffs from him, handcuffing Bertha’s hands behind her back. He watched, unsure of what to do when Jones pulled an unfinished scarf from a basket on the floor, wrapping it tightly around his hand. 

“We need to get that taken care of,” said Barnaby, unable to tear his gaze away from Jones’s hand.

Bertha smiled, “I could kiss it better.”

Jones grimaced, muttering, “Your scarfs are ugly.”

.  
.  
.

Barnaby didn’t know what was worse; the amount of blood that had soaked into the scarf or the pain that had his sergeant hunched over, head between his knees, thick blanket over his shoulders, sitting in the back of an ambulance. Jones’s hand shook, his skin clammy and pale, the shock settling in. Refusing to look away, Barnaby stood outside the ambulance and watched as the medic unravelled the scarf, congealing blood pulling away from the wound. It wasn’t a remarkable injury, the entry and exit wound small, colourful bruising already developing.

“I’m going to assume you’re all caught up on your tetanus shots?” The medic turned Jones’s hand over, short chubby fingers pressing and prodding the area around the wounds. “Can you move your fingers?”

Jones sat up, his body tilting to the side when he caught sight of his hand. “What?”

“Tetanus shots and play the piano for me.”

“Yes and I don’t know how to play--”

“He wants you to move your fingers, Jones,” said Barnaby.

“Oh.” Jones moved his fingers, hesitant at first, then with more movement, his face creasing in pain.

“It looks good,” said the medic.

“You’re not wearing your glasses are you?” said Jones. “And please, don’t tell me it’s worse than it looks.”

“It looks worse than it is.”

“You’re not making me feel any better.”

“Ted.”

“What?”

“Call me Ted.”

“I don’t think I want to be on first name terms with a medic,” said Jones.

Barnaby rolled his eyes. “Does he need to go to the emergency room?”

Ted nodded. “As a precaution, he’ll need an x-ray and a doctor might want to prescribe a course of antibiotics. There’s also the shock to deal with. Once all that’s done, it’ll be home to bed.”

“There goes a planned evening in the pub,” said Barnaby.

“You don’t have to come, Sir.”

“Jones, I was planning on taking you to the pub.”

“Oh,” said Jones.

Ted shook his head, “The alcohol will do you more harm than good.”

There wasn’t much of an argument from Jones, his energy lacking, pain and shock once again hunching him over, head back between his knees. 

“Cup of tea and a biscuit then,” said Barnaby.

Jones lifted his head, his expression telling Barnaby what he thought of his joke. “Undo your top three buttons and I’ll think about it . . . Sir”

Barnaby smiled. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

“There’s no need, Sir,” said Jones. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will be, Jones.”

I’m sure you will be.

.  
.  
.

Coming Next: ‘The Must Have Beat Up’


	3. The Must Have Beat Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taken by surprise, receiving a disabling injury so he can’t fight back, DS Jones finds himself at a disadvantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: If descriptions of decayed corpses and flies and maggots makes you feel icky, then reading this will probably make you feel . . . icky.

The rain had finally let up, deciding that it wanted to move on to a more dehydrated locality, leaving behind nothing but mud and a lingering smell of soggy damp. The weather was now turning humid, the warning of an unfamiliar heat wave threatening to ruin everyone’s week. Including the poor sod chosen for sentry duty, now standing in the mud and growing heat, her job to keep curious gossips away from the crime scene; putrid odor coming from the cottage not helping one little bit.

Shoes squelching through the mud, DS Ben Jones made his way toward the home of the deceased Mrs. Hostetler, nodding in greeting as he passed WPC Turpin. The uniformed officer opened her mouth to respond, closing it just as quickly, gagging on the rotten smell that hung around like an unwelcome mother-in-law. Jones grimaced in sympathy, remembering the days when he’d been the poor sod, bored out of his mind given nothing better to do than stand around for hours keeping those with a morbid curiosity beyond the crime scene tape. His sympathy quickly dispersed when he remembered where he was going; into the cottage, heat and smell stronger than it was out in the open.

The path he followed quickly turned to weeds overgrown, flattened by the two-way traffic of yesterday, crime scene attendants moving back and forth, some rushing to the side of the house to empty their stomachs. Beaten to death with an antique electric clothes iron, Mrs. Hostetler hadn’t been a pretty corpse, left to rot for almost two weeks before an inquisitive neighbour found her. Body bloated, eye sockets empty, fleshing turning black, skin peeling, maggots eating; even Jones had had trouble keeping his breakfast down. 

Breathing through his mouth, Jones unlocked and opened the front door, closing his eyes and turning his head away as a rush of hot putrid air embraced him, clinging to his suit, his skin. The smell sickened him, turning his stomach. Hesitating before entering the cottage, Jones stood still for an extended moment, hoping the odour would lose its strength. It didn’t, it only grew stronger. Stepping into the main hallway, Jones felt a lingering presence, the feeling sending a shiver along his spine. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but if they did exist, surely, even Mrs. Hostetler wouldn’t stick around, not here, not in a home ranked with the odour of death.

Behind him, the front door slammed shut, the sound loud in the confined space of the hallway. Body jerking in surprise, Jones turned around. Nothing there, no shadows; human or ghost, no strong breeze to close the door. His heart beat painfully against his ribcage, the burst of adrenaline fading quickly. Jones adjusted his tie, the moment awkward, embarrassing, even in his own company, grateful that no one else had seen his reaction.

Satisfied a horrifically decayed corpse didn't haunt the hallway, Jones turned and moved further into the house. Dead, bloated flies crunched beneath his shoes, the sound echoing off wooden floorboards grating on already fraying nerves. He stopped in the open doorway leading into the back living room, hand over his mouth and nose, adjusting to the sight and smell. Mrs. Hostetler had died in this room, corpse feeding the large colony of insects squatting in her home. 

A dark blanket covered the furniture; dust, collected over time, had turned black, the flies and other insects dropping, dying where they now lay amongst the dirt. Death by gluttony. Jones wasn’t able to adjust, the sight continuing to nauseate him, the smell melting his sinuses. Jones stood before Mrs. Hostetler’s place of death, wooden floor stained with liquefying body fats, dead flies and maggots giving the stain an ugly pattern. The smell was even stronger here, the floor yet to dry, the odour like condensation, rising up into the air. He shuddered, the smell acting as though it were a living thing, crawling across his flesh, nipping and biting at his skin. He felt dirty, in need of a hot shower and a change of clothes. But he had to admit, it wasn’t as bad as it had been the day before, corpse stuck to the floorboards in the middle of the room, smell and sight causing at least one officer to faint. He swallowed the memory of Mrs. Hostetler, flesh separating from wood when moved, the sound excruciating. At least the constant hum of buzzing flies was no longer a problem, the silence eerie, almost uncomfortable.

It was an unpleasant environment and the sooner he got out of it, the better. But he couldn’t leave, not yet. Barnaby had insisted on taking a second look at the crime scene; psychology degree hoping to find something, see something that would explain the killer’s motive. Only one problem with that, Barnaby wasn’t here; caught up interviewing a witness. Jones hadn’t been too impressed when Barnaby, confident in his sergeant’s abilities, had told Jones to start without him. Jones, once again the lackey, stuck with the dirty work. At least the new Barnaby wasn’t as bad as the old Barnaby, Jones’s cleaning bill not as expensive as it once was.

The sound of flies under foot warned Jones of another presence in the room; gut feeling telling him that something wasn’t right. He heard it before he felt it, a solid object splitting the air. Time sped up, things moving too quickly for Jones to keep up, reacting without thinking. Curling his shoulders upward, hands lifting to protect his skull, Jones moved on instinct, hopefully in the right direction, an attempt to avoid painful contact. Pain exploded across his back, hunching him over, a grunt of pain and surprise escaping through gritted teeth. A second blow, more painful than the first, forced him down onto his hands and knees, scrambling to get back up before his attacker could strike a third time. Hands slipping in Mrs. Hostetler’s leftovers, Jones fell onto his right side, suit now ruined; pungent odour so close, his eyes began to water. 

His spine felt broken, the pain spreading quickly through his back, his shoulders becoming stiff, fingers numb, making movement awkward. Jones struggled to get up, the drying liquid on the floor keeping him down, limbs finding it difficult to find purchase. He looked upward, gauging his situation. A tall figure stood over him, black balaclava hiding his face, crowbar held above his right shoulder, preparing to strike again. Jones struck first, the heel of his shoe slamming against the side of his attacker’s right knee. Lack of a firm footing took the strength out of the blow, the man barely reacting. Jones slipped onto his back, leaving himself open to attack. Through eyes filled with pain, Jones watched as the crowbar began its decent, swung like a golf club, destination unknown. His chest tight with fear, Jones made a feeble attempt to get out of its way, feet and numb fingers slipping in what Mrs. Hostetler had left behind. His attacker retaliated in kind, the crowbar bouncing off the side of Jones’s right knee.

Jones couldn’t help but scream; the pain agonizing, the sound cut off when his attacker pressed a hand over his mouth. Controlled only by the pain, Jones forgot about everything else. Eyes shut tight Jones struggled to breathe through his nose, breath harsh, quick. The muscles in and around his knee began to spasm, the pain unbearable. He feared it was dislocated, broken... Bugger of a thing to fix.

“Where is it?”

At the sound of his attacker’s voice, Jones’s eyes snapped open. He blinked, clearing his vision, bringing the man into focus. Hand removed, only to return as a clenched fist, snapping Jones’s head to the side. The feeling of Mrs. Hostetler on his skin left Jones feeling sick to his stomach.

“Where is it?”

“I’m a police offi--”

“I know who you are, Jonesy, and right now, I don’t care. I want that money and you’re going to tell me where it is.” The man dropped the crowbar onto the floor, Jones flinching away when it just managed to miss his skull. Kneeling beside Jones, the man placed his hand back over Jones’s mouth and reaching back, he slapped an open palm against the side of Jones’s damaged knee, not once but twice. 

Not just a lackey doing the dirty work but a lackey getting his arse kicked.

Jones felt light-headed, the pain too much, the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision, limbs going limp. Removing his hand the man hit him a second time, closed fist against the side of Jones’s face, this time hard enough to break the skin. Jones tried to focus, to think of a way out.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know what--”

A hand gripped his throat, squeezing until he could no longer breathe. “You came here for it! Where is it?”

Knowing he would fail to remove his attacker’s hand, the grip too strong, Jones searched for something he could use to fight back. Numb fingers scraping through Mrs. Hostetler, he found the crowbar. Gripping it as tightly as numb fingers would allow, Jones lifted his arm, swinging the crowbar. It struck the man across the side of the head, knocking him sideways, but not off Jones. Realising the man wasn’t down for the count, Jones struck again, sending the man into oblivion.

Jones dropped the crowbar and pushed upward, pain rippling through his back as he tried to lift the weight off his chest. Clenching his teeth, he gave one final shove, pushing his attacker up and over to the side. No longer caring about disturbing Mrs. Hostetler’s remaining remains, Jones let his head fall back with a soft thump. He needed a moment. Needed to calm his beating heart, satisfy anorexic lungs, wait for the pain to ease. It took longer than he had expected, his heart finally slowing, his lungs no longer needy. The pain refused to cooperate. Two out of three wasn’t bad.

He shifted onto his left hip – right knee threatening retaliation – and reached behind his back for his handcuffs. Pain flared across his shoulders, pins and needles spreading through his arms, reaching fingertips. Jones fumbled with the cuffs, taking longer than what was normal to cuff his attacker’s hands behind the man’s back. When done, Jones let himself fall back, body exhausted by pain, adrenaline now lacking, his knee throbbing painfully.

He needed help. 

WPC Turpin was yet to launch a rescue attempt; too busy being bored to hear his cut-off scream no doubt. He had two options: call out in the hope that Turpin would hear him, or make the emergency call himself. Jones chose the latter, an opportunity to redeem his masculinity, prove that even as a lackey he could still do his job without complaint, could get himself out of a difficult situation. Jones removed his phone from his pocket and called the station, reporting an officer down and his location. 

Left to wait, Jones didn’t want to stay where he was, Mrs. Hostetler beneath him, her odour nauseating him still. Her touch intruding, Jones could feel her crawling over his skin. It was disturbingly creepy. Chest tight with anxiety, Jones decided to move. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his fear realised when the pain intensified. Knee and back screaming at him, both fighting for his attention. Using his hands, feeling returning to fingers, Jones pushed himself backward, giving himself and Mrs. Hostetler the privacy they both deserved. She held on tight, his right hand slipping in her reduced body fats, arm buckling beneath him. His right hip struck the floor, the sudden jolt sending an explosion of pain through his knee. Jones blacked out before his head hit the floor.

.  
.  
.

Jones woke with a start; Mrs. Hostetler’s touch still lingering on his skin, her odour stifling. He felt nauseated, dizzy, mouth dry, his body heavy with exhaustion. Pain, no longer sharp, held on with an unyielding grip. Brain unravelling, memory like an old faded photograph, Jones struggled to remember. Like a difficult puzzle, pieces of memory began to come together, a larger, clearer image exposed. He’d laid on top of Mrs. Hostetler, that much was certain, a horrific explanation for the smell and touch. The thought of the dead maggots, the flies, her body tissues against his skin, in his hair . . . a violent shudder ran through him. He grimaced when the pain spiked, taking too long before it faded once again into the background. He remembered the crowbar arching through the air, colliding with his knee, the pain strong and hot. Reminded that his back had felt broken, Jones flexed his fingers, the toes of his left foot. Not broken. He sighed with grateful relief.

“Jones?”

Everything snapped into place for Jones. He’d woken back in the cottage, what was left of Mrs. Hostetler still beneath him, an unconscious suspect beside him, DCI Barnaby hovering over him. Jones remembered the fear in Barnaby’s eyes, his boss no doubt worried about a serious injury. Things had quickly deteriorated, Jones’s stomach deciding it wouldn’t take it anymore, its tolerance for the smell no longer existent. Barnaby had turned him onto his side; the pain in his back and knee excruciating. He couldn’t remember much after that, his memory filled with shadows drifting in and out of sight.

“Ben?”

Jones opened his eyes, vision blurred, eyelids beyond heavy. The floor beneath him was no longer wooden, hard, sticky with Mrs. Hostetler. Instead, it was soft, comfortable. Beige walls, white sheets and a hospital issued blanket told Jones his location. Barnaby sat beside his bed, looking worried and uncomfortable in a thin plastic chair.

“Sir.”

Barnaby leaned forward, hand resting on the edge of the bed, “Do you need anything?”

Lacking the energy to move, only wanting to go back to sleep, Jones said, “No, sir.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“Going to psychoanalyse me are you, sir,” said Jones.

“Just making sure you’re okay, Jones. Concerned boss and all that.”

Feeling awkward and emotionally uncomfortable, Jones turned his head toward Barnaby, his shoulders tightening with a dull ache. Jones could feel his brain shifting, somehow knocked off kilter, leaning heavily to the left. He closed his eyes hoping his equilibrium would quickly catch up, balance slow to return. Opening his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice the expectant expression Barnaby was wearing. His boss was waiting for an answer, confirmation his sergeant was okay.

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jones. “Anyway, the worst of it was Mrs. Hostetler.”

“How so?”

“Well . . . she was all over me.”

“Getting a bit were you, Jones,” said Barnaby.

“Not my type, sir.”

“No,” said Barnaby. “Of course not.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

Barnaby smiled. “If you start having erotic nightmares about dead women, you’ll tell me?”

“In explicit detail, sir,” said Jones. “Did I kill him?”

“His name is Arnold Bunning. And no, you didn’t kill him. Gave him a nasty concussion though.”

Jones frowned, forehead creasing as he tried to remember. “I don’t know him.”

“Should you?”

“He said he knew who I was,” said Jones. “Said something about money.”

“Ahh,” said Barnaby, the colour draining from his face as he leaned back into the plastic chair. “Jones, about that . . .”

“Sir?”

“Our witness, Mrs. Wilson, told me there’s a rumour going around the village that Mrs. Hostetler was a hoarder when it came to money. It was rumoured she had a small fortune hidden somewhere in her cottage.”

“We searched the house. There was no money.”

“She did say it was a rumour,” said Barnaby.

“He broke my knee because of a rumour?”

“Dislocated your kneecap,” said Barnaby.

“Well, that’s all right then.”

“They had to give you a general anaesthetic so they could put it back into place, something about too much pain and muscle spasm making it difficult. They’re waiting for the swelling to go down before they put a knee brace on your leg.”

“Oh,” said Jones, nodding in bewilderment. 

“And you’ve got severe bruising on your back.”

“Is that all?”

“You’ve still got most of Mrs. Hostetler all over you.”

.  
.  
.

Coming Next: The Not Needed but Wanted Illness


	4. The Not Needed but Wanted Illness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DS Jones finds it difficult working with a non-cooperative case of the flu, the illness wanting more attention than he has time to give.

Taking a deep breath, chest aching with the effort, detective sergeant Jones stepped into the front living room of the small cottage. The room itself was immaculate, obsessively clean, furniture old, decorative colours pale. The only thing out of place was the body nailed to the wall, open fireplace to its left, cross-stitch pictures of cats to its right; body seemingly a part of the decor.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. Crime scenes never were but this one was particularly bad, the killer methodical in his efforts; the victim on display like a piece of macabre art, gruesome in all its details. What looked like dozens of concrete nails kept the body in place, hung up on the wall like an ugly crucifix; arms stretched outward, ankles crossed. Blood, now dark and congealing, had soaked into the carpet below.

If the victim were alive when nailed to the wall . . . it would have been a slow and painful death.

The nauseating crime scene was not the right way for Jones to continue what was already a bad day. He swallowed down the rising bile but the sight and smell of the victim only made things worse, his stomach deciding to head for the hills, screaming as it ran. He wasn’t able to get outside, to create a safe distance between himself and the crime scene. Finding a quiet corner in one of the other rooms, Jones’s stomach evicted its contents without further notice. Nothing more solid than spit and bile, his appetite lacking for the last few days. 

He felt bloody awful, body dead and in need of a quick burial, his mind refusing to accept the inevitable. A zombie walking amongst the land of the living, trying to lead a normal life even though his body wasn’t being cooperative. Headache, nausea, sore throat, fever, chills, chest pain, ear pain, he had everything. This wasn’t just the flu; it was a slow and painful death, much like the poor sod nailed to the wall.

Dying would be a lot easier but he no longer had that option. Now caught up in the middle of a murder investigation, Jones didn’t have the time or the patience for the flu, the illness demanding more attention than he was able or willing to give. Checking his watch, Jones realised it had only been a couple of hours since he’d taken his last dose of over-the-counter flu medication. Not that they were working, about as useless as a sniffer dog with sinus problems. Deciding that topping up on the flu medication might actually be a good idea, Jones popped four pills from the blister packet he kept in his jacket pocket and swallowed them dry.

Another deep breath, pain catching in his chest, Jones made his way back to the crime scene, body language relaying his reluctance to return. In the few minutes he was gone, SOCO had invaded the living room, men and woman ogling the victim, forensic side of the crime fascinating. Jones couldn’t really find any fault in their attitude toward their job; removing a body from a wall not an everyday occurrence for them. Or the victim. When Kate Wilding entered the crime scene, Jones muttered a polite greeting and not willing to watch the prodding and probing, the removal of the body, he walked out of the room in search of the person who had found the body. 

It didn’t take Jones long to find him, a uniformed PC pointing him toward the back of the house. Jones made his way along the hallway, moving close to the wall, solid support in case he needed it. More cross-stitch pictures lined the walls, cats of every variety, at least a dozen of them. Reaching the end of the hallway, Jones stepped into a kitchen that looked brand new. White cabinets, gray bench top and silver appliances. It was out of place in a cottage that was at least eighty years old.

A man, on the wrong side of middle age, his gray hair receding, sat at a large wooden kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Sugar cubes, stacked high on a small plate, sat on the table in front of him. The man looked as bad as Jones felt. Face Ashen, flesh clammy, hairline sweaty, eyes bloodshot. Shock no doubt. Finding a body nailed to a wall would do that to a person.

Jones moved into the man’s line of sight and once he had gained the man’s attention, he removed his warrant card from his jacket pocket, displayed it for the man to see, and said, “Detective sergeant Jones, Causton CID. I understand you found the body?”

“Yes.”

“And you are?” 

“Michael Alberton,” the man said as he swallowed a strangled sob, clenched fist against his mouth as he tried to hold back his emotions. Lowering his hand, he gripped his cup of tea, knuckles white, hands shaking so badly the tea spilt over the edge of the cup onto his hands; liquid not hot enough to scold flesh. Alberton then gathered a small handful of sugar cubes, tossing them into his mouth, sucking and chewing, the sugar crunching between his teeth. “They say sugar is supposed to help.”

Watching with growing curiosity, Jones placed his warrant card back into his pocket. “Are you okay, Mr. Alberton?”

“No. Not really,” said Mr. Alberton

Jones nodded, not at all surprised by the answer. “Must have been quite a shock finding the body like that?”

“Yeah, imagine my surprise.” 

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Jones, the abrupt change in emotions obvious. He let it go, people dealt with trauma in different ways. Legs suddenly weak, muscles turning to jelly, Jones pulled out a chair and sat down before he fell down. His body heavy with fatigue, Jones slumped in the chair and removed his notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.

“Did you know the victim, Mr. Alberton?”

“Jacob Alberton. He was my brother.”

The victim’s head had been slumped forward, face hidden from Jones, resemblance between victim and brother not so obvious. Jones reacted automatically, not necessarily emotionally, relaying his condolences to Mr. Alberton.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Alberton.”

“No need to be, sergeant. My brother was a sodding wanker.”

“Disliked only by you or disliked by many,” said Jones.

“Hated by everyone he knew, including me. I suppose that’s going to make your job more difficult.”

Jones smiled. “Did you kill your brother, Mr. Alberton?”

Alberton smiled in return. “If I did, it’s not something I’m going to admit.”

“Should we consider you a suspect?”

“I have an alibi.”

“I haven’t given you a time of death,” said Jones.

“I was in Oxford for the last two days. Got back half an hour ago. That alibi enough for you.”

“It will be once I confirm it.” Something about Alberton was beginning to bother Jones, an over indulgent itch that he couldn’t scratch. A puzzle he couldn’t solve. “I’ll need a name and number for anyone who can corroborate your alibi.”

“You can’t take my word for it?”

“No.”

Alberton hesitated, throwing another small handful of sugar into his mouth, taking too long to gather his thoughts. It suggested to Jones that Alberton was either trying to hide something, or thinking up a plausible lie. Calculating a plan, adjusting it as he went. The man was looking guiltier with every passing moment, with every word that came from his mouth.

“Mr. Alberton?”

“I spent the weekend with Mary Alberton. My brother’s wife.”

Eyebrows rising, Jones failed to keep the surprise from his face. 

“Don’t look so shocked, sergeant.”

“Not exactly shocked, Mr. Alberton. What’s one more case of adultery? Common practice in Midsomer apparently.”

“You don’t understand, Sergeant Jones,” said Alberton. “We love each other. Have done for years.”

“Did your brother know about you and his wife?”

“Not that I’m aware, no.”

“Where is his wife now?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last see her,” said Jones.

“It was here, when we found the body.”

“She was with you?”

“Yes.”

“She finds her husband nailed to a wall and she just leaves?”

“Yeah. She saw the body. Ran from the house and drove off. Haven’t seen her since. I thought . . . as much as I hated him, I couldn’t leave him like that. I had to call 999.”

“Any idea where she might have gone?”

“No,” said Alberton. “I’m sure she’ll show up . . . eventually.”

The nagging itch grew out of control, becoming irritating, tickling at his instinctive nature. Something was seriously wrong here. Alberton was watching him, eyes narrowed, forehead creased with suspicion. Jones decided to change direction, asking questions about Jacob Alberton, gathering background information on the victim, writing everything down in his notebook. The simple effort of conversation was draining for Jones, his throat becoming dry, his headache growing worse. He could feel the moment the chill in his bones morphed back into a fever, body becoming overheated once again, his entire being ready to collapse into an exhausted heap.

“Are we done, sergeant?”

“Where did you spend the last two days, Mr. Alberton?”

“The Old Bank Hotel on High street.”

“Did you leave your room at all? See anyone during your stay that can confirm you were there?”

“Apart from the hotel staff?” said Alberton. “No. You can call them. They’ll tell you that I checked in on Saturday morning and checked out this morning.”

“All due respect, Mr. Alberton, you could have easily left out a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, drove back here, killed your brother and then returned to Oxford.”

“I didn’t hear any respect in that statement, Sergeant Jones.”

“I didn’t hear any denial in your response, Mr. Alberton.”

“I didn’t come back here and kill my brother. Can I go now?”

“Did Mrs. Alberton leave in your car or hers?”

“My car.”

“Car and registration, please?”

“A red 2005 Rover 75. I don’t know the registration off the top of my head. I’ll have to find the papers.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Alberton?”

“I live in the cottage next door.”

“That must have been convenient for you.”

Alberton narrowed his eyes, anger showing for the first time. “We loved each other.”

With the itch becoming more painful, Jones removed a card from the inside of his jacket pocket. He placed the card on the table, pushing it toward Alberton. 

“If Mrs. Alberton contacts you, please call me.”

“Am I suspect, Sergeant Jones?”

“Think about it, Mr. Alberton,” said Jones. “You hated your brother and you were having an affair with his wife.”

“You think I killed my brother.”

“If I did, it’s not something I’m going to admit.”

Alberton nodded, a sneer crossing his features. He took the card from the table and after giving it the once over he stood up and left the room, pausing in the doorway. “I didn’t kill my brother.”

“Of course you didn’t, Mr. Alberton.”

Each man knew the other was lying, tone of voice betraying his thoughts.

When he was sure Alberton had left, Jones allowed his body to sag further down on the chair, head resting against the back of the chair. It wouldn’t hurt to take a few moments to think about the words spoken, the body language displayed. He knew Alberton was lying, was sure the man had killed his brother. He had the motive. Kill the brother. Take the wife. He had the opportunity. Leave the hotel, come back to Midsomer, nail his brother to the wall and then return to Oxford. But something wasn’t right. Jones had the nagging suspicion that Mary Alberton was also dead. 

Despite the uncomfortable chair, Jones began to relax, eyelids heavy with exhaustion closing, sleep impending . . .

“Jones?”

Jones’s body jerked in surprise. He stumbled up onto unsteady feet and turned around, bum against the edge of the table to keep himself upright. John Barnaby, wearing an expression Jones easily recognised, stood in the doorway waiting for an explanation as to why his sergeant was sleeping on the job. Unwilling to tell Barnaby that he felt like he had died two days ago from a nasty bout of the flu, Jones stood silently, body language awkward under Barnaby’s scrutiny.

“Everything all right, Jones?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jones, pointing toward the doorway. “I was just speaking to the victim’s bother.”

“And?” 

“He killed him.” No point in beating about the bush. 

Barnaby smiled. “And what brought you to that conclusion?”

“Gut feeling, sir.”

“Are you sure your gut feeling isn’t just . . . oh, I don’t know . . . a hangover perhaps?”

“Sir?”

“You look like crap,” said Barnaby. “Go home and sleep it off.”

“I’m not hung over . . . sir.” 

Not waiting to see if Barnaby would follow him, Jones walked out of the kitchen – knees wanting to buckle beneath him with every step – down the hallway and back to the crime scene. Just in time to hear the sound of a nail pulling away from body and wall. Jones turned away from the sight, gagging on the bile rising in his throat. Gaze downward, Jones placed his hands on his hips and took a deep breath to settle his stomach, the ache in his chest becoming sharp, a grimace of pain appearing on his features. 

“Jones?”

Barnaby had snuck up on him again. Expecting a reprimand, Jones looked up and waited. Barnaby stared back at him, inquisitive gaze wondering over Jones’s face, then his body. He knew that if his boss looked long enough, hard enough, he would see something unsettling, send Jones home. But Jones wasn’t ready, or willing to go home. He had a lead and he was going to run with it.

Turning around, his back to Barnaby, Jones watched as someone, unrecognisable in a pair of blue disposable overalls, removed another nail from the victim. When Barnaby stepped up beside him, Jones crossed his arms hoping that his boss would get the message; he wasn’t open to questions that weren’t about the job.

“Would you like to fill me in on what’s going on?”

He could do that. 

“Victim’s name is Jacob Alberton. Thirty-eight years old. Ran his own business in Causton. Everyone, including his brother, who, as it happens, found the victim, hated him. The brother, Michael Alberton was having an affair with the victim’s wife. Alberton claims that he and the wife, a Mary Alberton, spent the last two days in Oxford, only arriving back about forty-five minutes ago. He also said the wife was with him when he found the victim but she ran out of the house and drove off in Michael Alberton’s car. He hasn’t seen her since and doesn’t know where she is.”

“And what makes you think he killed his brother?”

“He’s iffy,” said Jones. “I also think he killed Mary Alberton.”

The sound of nails scraping through skin, bone and plasterboard was becoming too much for Jones, his face becoming paler, stomach feeling like it was boiling over. 

“Because you think he’s . . . iffy,” said Barnaby. “CPS will love that.”

Jones turned to face Barnaby. “You think I’m jumping to a conclusion?”

“You spoke to the witness for what? Five minutes? And now you think that not only did he kill his brother, he also killed his brother’s wife.”

“I don’t need a psychology degree to know when someone’s lying, sir.”

Barnaby looked away, his expression neutral, body language unreadable. Jones knew he was out of line but he wasn’t going to apologise, tired of being second-guessed. He turned back toward the body on the wall, watching the removal of another nail; much like someone pulling teeth with a pair of pliers. 

“Explain to me why you think Michael Alberton killed his brother,” said Barnaby.

Jones hesitated, trying to think of what he could say that would lead Barnaby to the same conclusions. Brain working overtime, his gaze followed the members of the SOCO team as they moved quickly and efficiently around the room. Their blue suits made his eyesight swim, the colour an eyesore. Kate Wilding stood with her back to the room, supervising the removal of the body; another nail tugged from the wall, metal covered in blood and muscle. He couldn’t watch this any longer. He turned his head away, his gaze resting on Barnaby, his boss staring back at him, waiting.

“His shock seemed genuine at first, physically and emotionally but he snapped out of it pretty quickly. He wasn’t leaking information but . . . it was as if he was trying to play a game with me. The old, ‘I know something you don’t know’ game. When I suggested he put out a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and came back to Midsomer to kill his brother, he didn’t deny it. Not at first. Too concerned about the accusation. He only denied it when I told him that he hadn’t denied it. And he dropped a couple of hints.”

“What kind of hints?”

“He said that he didn’t know where Mary Alberton was, that she would show up eventually and he put an intentional pause before the word eventually. As though he knew where she was, but it was up to us to find her. When he spoke of their love, he used the past tense and I don’t think it was because he no longer loved her. Besides all of that, she just leaves after she finds her husband nailed to a wall. I don't buy it, sir. I mean, who does that? I know he’s lying, sir. I’m sure of it.”

“Lying doesn’t make him guilty of murder.”

“I know that, sir,” said Jones, a sigh of frustration escaping. “It’s just . . .”

“How sure are you?”

“Sir?”

“Are you sure enough to take the lead on this case?”

Jones let his surprise show, eyebrows rising, head tilting forward, left hand unconsciously adjusting his tie. But his surprise quickly turned to confusion; he’d become delirious, fever taking control of his brain because John Barnaby did not just ask him if he wanted to take the lead on what Jones believed was a double murder case. 

“Sir?”

Barnaby smiled, “Is there something about this situation that’s confusing to you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jones. “The part where I thought you said I should take the lead on this case.”

“I did say that you should take the lead, Jones,” said Barnaby, letting out his own sigh of frustration. “But only if you’re sure Michael Alberton killed his brother.”

“I’m sure.”

“Then you’ve got the lead,” said Barnaby, raising his left arm, offering Jones the crime scene.

Jones nodded, glanced at the scene and nodded again. “I’ve got the lead?”

“Yes.”

He knew Barnaby was looking at him the same way he looked at a suspect, his gaze studying Jones, his psychology degree trying to understand him. Jones could feel the pressure to be right building and hoped he wasn’t wrong in his assessment of Michael Alberton. He’d jumped to conclusions on other occasions, not trusting his instinct because he’d been too eager to please the new boss, looking like a complete fool as a result. He can’t make that mistake again. If he were wrong, he would never get another chance to prove himself.

“Right then,” said Jones, nodding again as though to make sure. “You take the body. I’ll go outside and make some calls.” 

Jones waited for Barnaby’s protest, a subtle suggestion that it would be better if Jones stayed with the body. Barnaby remained silent however, simply staring back at him. Jones used the moment of silence to escape the nauseating crime scene. With his stomach ready to erupt, head splitting open and his body overheating, Jones left the room, rushing to the front door, making it outside with time to spare. Nodding to the uniformed officer who stood outside the front door, Jones made his way to the side of the cottage, leant over, hand on the wall for support and vomited into the garden. 

Still nothing but spit and bile, remnants of the flu medication he’d taken earlier. His gut, not willing to give up so easily, continued to go through the motions, stomach muscle spasms, the gagging becoming repetitive. It took minutes for his stomach to realise there was nothing left to eject, his body now lacking the energy to stay upright. He had to sit down before he fell down. Barnaby would love that. Put Jones in charge only for Jones to collapse under the pressure. It wouldn’t matter that he was sick, flu so bad it felt like he was dying, death certificate already in the mail. It would only matter that he had failed . . . again. But that wasn’t going to happen, Jones now too determined to give up.

Fever returning to a chill cold enough to make his bones ache, Jones moved down the side of the cottage in search of somewhere more private to sit and rest, allow his body a few minutes to get over itself. Finding a garden bench seat at the back of the house, he sat down; his body not yet ready to be thankful. Upper body collapsing forward, Jones rested his elbows on his thighs. Afraid that his head, feeling too heavy for his body, would fall from trembling shoulders, Jones supported his head in the palms of his hands.

He didn’t think he could have felt worse, but he did. Chill once again switching back to the heat of a fever, the sweat building at the edges of his hairline, the back of his neck. His stomach muscles ached with too much use, his chest felt tight and painful, breath becoming quick and harsh. Still feeling bloody awful, Jones was beginning to wonder if he were suffering from something much worse than the flu; something so bad, death was standing on his doorstep, bones knocking on his front door. 

And just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, his aches and pains began to ease, his breathing becoming less harsh. Feeling better, if only slightly, Jones sat up, the sudden jolt of blood rushing past his ears leaving him feeling faint. The moment passed just as quickly, as though it had never happened. Taking in a deep breath, pain no longer sharp, Jones glanced over the back yard. Garden filled with statues – large and small – of cats; not the kind of place Jones would want to spend a lazy day. The sun on his body left him feeling overheated, lethargic, his body sweating beneath his suit. He leaned back, head resting on the back of the bench, and closed his eyes . . . just for a minute . . . only a minute and then he would call the station, get the investigation moving.

“Jones?”

Bloody hell. Why did Barnaby keep sneaking up on him? Lacking the energy to be surprised, Jones lifted his head and opened his eyes. Barnaby stood over him, hands in his pockets, a look of irritation on his face. Jones waited for Barnaby to make the first move, say the first word. He didn’t have to wait long. 

“If it’s not a hangover, Jones,” said Barnaby, “what is it?”

Not what Jones had expected. 

“Late night, sir.” 

It wasn’t a lie. Unable to sleep, a possible side effect of the over-the-counter flu medication, Jones had spent most of the night watching infomercials. He now knew more about food preparation devices than he had ever wanted or needed to know.

“Anyone I know.”

“Not that kind of late night, sir,” said Jones.

“What other kind is there?”

“It’s nothing, sir. Really.”

Barnaby pulled his hands from his pockets and sat down on the bench next to Jones. His gaze roamed the garden, taking in the ugly cat statues, before finally settling on Jones.

“Someone has a cat obsession,” said Barnaby.

“But no real cat.” 

Knowing that his boss would try to read him like an open book, Jones refused to look at Barnaby, keeping his own gaze on a particularly unpleasant cat statue that stood a few feet away. Once black, now fading toward a sickening gray, its eyes white, tail looking as though it had been broken and glued back together on more than one occasion.

“Is everything all right, Jones?”

Jones knew beyond a reasonable doubt that if he admitted to Barnaby that he was sick, he would lose the opportunity of a lifetime. He now had the chance to prove he was capable of solving a case, of proving he had the aptitude required to become a detective inspector. He wasn’t as quick with the deductive reasoning as Barnaby but if left to it, he would solve the case; it would take longer, but he would solve it. But he couldn’t solve it if he was taken off the case and sent home where he would sit in a corner, feeling sorry for himself while he waited for death – no longer knocking – to kick in his front door. Instinct screaming at him that Michael Alberton killed his brother, Jones decided to continue with the lie.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re okay?”

“Yes, sir. Just tired.”

Barnaby, his frustration showing in his body language, said, “Jones, I have a psychology degree. I can tell when someone is lying to me.”

Jones hesitated, as Alberton had earlier, his brain faltering as he tried to think of something to say that would keep him on the case. He could continue the lie or he could replace one lie with another. He was taking too long, his boss becoming agitated. The lie began to form in his mind, Barnaby’s prior statement fuelling the tall tale. But he had to consider the consequences. What would Barnaby do when he found out that his sergeant had deliberately lied to him? Jones decided he didn’t really care, the need to prove himself stronger than the respectful fear he had for his boss. 

He had to do it right though, look the part. Jones had seen it done, an accused person’s body language changing from confident to vulnerable when proven guilty. He allowed his body to sag further down on the bench seat, the position uncomfortable. Letting out a deep sigh, Jones hoped that Barnaby would think he was giving in, ready to admit to the lie, wanting to tell the truth. Jones turned his gaze toward his boss and hoping his lie would pass muster, he said, “The last time you found out I was dating someone you used the knowledge to blackmail me. Sir.”

“Ah,” said Barnaby, his gaze quickly finding an interesting spot in the garden. “Yes. Sorry about that.”

“What did Kate have to say, sir,” said Jones, shifting the conversation back to the investigation before Barnaby could ask questions about his not-so-truthful love life. 

“Something very interesting, Jones. Jacob Alberton died about an hour ago.”

Body and skull heavy with flu, Jones waited for Barnaby to continue but his boss stared back at him with an expression that was capable of irritating the crap out of Jones. Barnaby knew more than he was saying, but instead of explaining what was going on, he was waiting for Jones’s brain to shift into gear, for his sergeant to come to his own conclusion. Fighting through the fog that filled his skull, Jones figured it out.

“There’s too much blood. He was alive when his killer nailed him to the wall. And he was on that wall for more than an hour. How long?”

“According to Kate, the amount of blood, the position of the nails, no vital organs hit, he’d been on the wall for at least six hours. But she can’t confirm it until she opens him up.”

“The poor bastard,” said Jones, the thought churning his stomach, cooking it until it was once again ready to boil over. “It took five hours . . .” 

“There’s more.”

“Do I need to know?”

“Being nailed to the wall didn’t actually kill him,” said Barnaby.

“What?”

“The victim was nailed to the wall alive. Left for five hours and then killed with a nail through the heart. The killer wanted the victim to suffer before he died.”

“Or the killer cocked it up, sir,” said Jones.

“The killer mistakenly left the victim alive? I don’t think so, Jones.”

“How about this, sir. Michael Alberton plans the murder, premeditated. It would be interesting to know how far in advance he booked the hotel. Once there, they do what couples who commit adultery do. Sometime during the early hours of this morning, he puts out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. He then sneaks out of the hotel, returns to Midsomer. They’re in the living room. Alberton uses . . . what,” Jones pauses to think, “a nail gun. Nails his brother to the wall, hides the murder weapon and returns to Oxford. When they arrive back here, he realises his brother is still alive, gets the murder weapon, puts in the final nail, killing his brother. Hides the murder weapon, which means it’s somewhere close. His cottage? Then he calls the police thinking that we would be stupid enough to believe the victim had been dead for hours.” 

“It’s plausible,” said Barnaby. “But we--”

“I know, sir,” said Jones, nodding, regretting the movement when the pain bounced around the inside of his skull. “We have to prove it.”

“Then you know what you need to do.”

“Call the hotel, make a verbal confirmation that Alberton was actually there for the last two days. When he checked in and when he checked out. Ask them if they have CCTV and if they do, have them send me a copy. If they don’t I’ll send them a photo for a visual confirmation. Ask if it’s possible for a guest to leave and enter the hotel during the night without the staff noticing them. And, as a last resort, if needed, I go to the hotel and talk to them. If there is proof he left the hotel early this morning, I apply for a warrant to search his cottage.”

“Anything else?”

“I need to find out the registration of Alberton’s car,” said Jones. “Once I’ve done that, put an APB out on the car. Get a picture of Mary Alberton and put an APB out on her. And background checks on Jacob Alberton, Michael Alberton and Mary Alberton.”

“That’s what you would do Jones, but you’re now the primary on the case. You need to ask yourself what I would do.”

“Leave the grunt work to your sergeant while you wondered off to talk to witnesses, suspects, anyone that might have gossip on the Alberton’s. But I don’t think like you, sir. Not having a psychology degree and all that.”

Barnaby made an expression that said he was getting tired of Jones throwing his psychology degree back in his face. “No, but you’re not so thick that you can’t put two and two together, Jones.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jones, grimacing, he would apologise later, when he was feeling less irritable. “Point taken, sir.” 

“What else?”

Oh, please don’t say it. Normally, it wouldn’t bother him, but today, his stomach wouldn’t be able to cope with . . . he could feel the colour draining from his skin at the thought, the bile burning in his throat.

“Autopsy, Jones.”

“Go to the autopsy, sir” said Jones, wondering if it were possible to fob it off to his boss. Barnaby had made him primary, the position giving him the opportunity to delegate.

“I’ll make the calls,” said Barnaby. “The hotel, APB’s, background checks and such while you go and do . . . Barnaby things . . . without a psychology degree.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Jones contemplated getting up in front of Barnaby, knowing all too well that his body could give up on him at any moment. Last thing he wanted to do was to fall flat on his face in front of his boss. Barnaby, of course, would first show concern but would then ask him what kind of girl he was dating. Finally, something went Jones’s way, his mobile going off in his jacket pocket. Under Barnaby’s curious scrutiny, Jones answered the call.

“Jones.”

“ _Sir, got something you might be interested in_.”

“What is it?”

“ _We got a call from Causton General Hospital. They have a suspected attempted suicide. Name of Mary Alberton. The address on her driver’s licence matches the address given for your victim._ ”

“Thanks,” said Jones, hanging up and turning to his gaze back to Barnaby. “They’ve found Mary Alberton.”

.  
.  
.

It had been an exhausting effort to hide his illness from Barnaby during the hours it had taken to gather enough evidence to gain a warrant for Michael Alberton’s arrest. But now, the legwork over, sitting in the cold interview room, a scrutinising gaze was enough to give away the fact that Jones was as sick as a cow dying on the side of the road, legs in the air, starving flies salivating at the thought of dinner. Fever flushed his cheeks. Sweat cooled on his heated flesh, his body shivering with the occasional chill. Jones was so exhausted he felt like he could sleep for a month, hibernating like a fat man after eating too much at Christmas.

But the day wasn’t over. Not yet. With Barnaby at his side, it was up to Jones to close the case, entice a confession from Alberton. They had all the information, statements, the evidence. The confession would be the last nail in the coffin. Throat dry, stomach aching like it’d been punched one too many times, lungs on fire and his head feeling like it had grown to twice its size, Jones began the interview.

“We found Mary Alberton.”

Alberton, body filling with emotion, leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. “And you want me to identify the body.”

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Alberton. Mary Alberton identified herself . . . verbally.”

“She isn’t dead?”

“Why would you think she was dead?”

Alberton fell back into his chair, shoulders slumping in defeat, confidence quickly leaving his body.

“She told us an interesting story, Mr. Alberton,” said Jones. “I could tell it to you, or you could tell it to me.”

Alberton shook his head.

Knowing that many suspects talked just to fill an awkward silence, Jones waited, giving Alberton the chance to tell his own story. As the seconds passed, Jones could feel the sweat soaking the back of his shirt, the feeling sending a shiver up his spine and into his skull, brain buzzing as a result. 

When Alberton stayed silent, refusing to talk, Jones continued, “Why don’t I start at the beginning. Mary Alberton wanted to end the affair, return to her husband.”

Barnaby shifted forward. “You didn’t like that. Did you Mr. Alberton?”

“I thought the weekend away would change her mind.”

Jones nodded. “She was insistent though, even after your weekend getaway. You decided if Jacob was dead, Mary wouldn’t have a husband to go back to.” 

Alberton stared back at Jones.

“We checked with the hotel. They confirmed what you told us. They also told us there _was_ a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on your door from Saturday evening until you checked out this morning at 7 am. You told me you didn’t leave your room during your entire stay. A staff member claims to have seen you coming back into the hotel around 6 am this morning.”

“That’s a lie,” said Alberton.

“They have CCTV. I have an officer looking at it right now and I’m sure he’ll confirm the witness’s statement.”

“I went out for an early breakfast.”

“That much physical activity can make a man hungry,” said Jones. “Was there physical activity, Mr. Alberton or did the two of you just talk.”

Alberton folded his arms, turning an angry gaze away from Jones and toward the wall behind Jones’s shoulder. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

Barnaby smiled, and said, “That’s your right, Mr. Alberton.” 

“On top of the CCTV and the witness statement from the member of the hotel staff, Mrs. Alberton told us that you left your room at 12:15 am this morning. Where were you during those six hours, Mr. Alberton?”

Jones pretended to be preoccupied with the notes sitting on the table in front of him, making it look as though he were giving Alberton time to answer the question. In truth, he needed a moment. He felt like he had just passed over, joining relatives long dead. He wanted to leave the room, find a quiet corner and collapse, refusing to get back up until he was ready. The pain in his chest sharpened, his breathing becoming unstable. In his peripheral, Jones could see Barnaby fidgeting in his seat, his boss willing to take over, but Jones had to finish the job.

“Did you go home and nail your brother to the wall of his living room, Mr. Alberton,” said Jones. “It would take a lot of anger and hate to do that to a person. Did you hate your brother?”

“A lot of people hated my brother.”

“Yes, you told me that this morning,” said Jones. “Did you intentionally leave your brother alive?”

“He was alive? Did he suffer--”

“You tell me, Mr. Alberton. You’re the one who nailed him to the wall.”

“Why would I want him to suffer?”

Jones, ready to drop, let out a sigh. “There you go again, Mr. Alberton. I claim that you killed your brother and you don’t deny it.”

It was as though Barnaby had read Jones’s body language, taking up the interview, giving Jones a break.

“Our pathologist,” said Barnaby, “told us that your brother hung on that wall for five hours, still breathing, still feeling everything. He suffered Mr. Alberton. He suffered more than you can imagine. In fact, he was still alive when you and Mary Alberton returned home.”

Jones leaned over sideways, reaching for the object lying on the floor next to his chair. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, shifting his balance, tilting his body to the side. With trembling fingers, he gripped the bag and sat up, darkness forcing its way through the edges of his vision. Jones waited, the feeling passing. He dropped the evidence bag holding the nail gun onto the table. 

“Were you smart enough to wear gloves when you used this,” said Jones. “Were you smart enough to wear gloves when you used it the second time to kill your brother?” 

“I didn’t kill my brother.”

“A little too late with the denial, Mr. Alberton.”

Barnaby pushed the evidence bag a little closer to Alberton. “The evidence says otherwise, Mr. Alberton. Your fingerprints are all over the nail gun.”

“I use it all the time.”

Jones wanted it all over and done with. “Why don’t we move on to Mary Alberton? She claims you killed her husband. She saw you, Michael. She saw you put the nail gun against your brother’s chest and pull the trigger. That’s why she ran from the house. But you followed her. Caught up to her and dragged her back into the house.

“You threatened to kill her the same way you killed your brother. But you loved her, so you gave her a choice. Sleeping pills or a death so painful . . . She agreed to the pills. When she was unconscious, you put her in the car, drove her to a secluded place and left her there to die. But she didn’t die.”

“I love her,” said Alberton. “I wanted her to leave him but she wouldn’t.”

“You killed your brother so you could have her to yourself?”

Alberton stared at Jones, his face collapsing into a puddle of regret. “Yes. Mary told me last week that she wanted to be with Jacob. That she wanted her marriage to work. I tried to talk her out of it. But she insisted it was over. That’s when I decided to kill him. I booked the hotel, asked her to go with me, one last chance at patching things up. She didn’t want to go of course but I told her I didn’t expect anything physical, just to talk and give us a chance.

“She agreed. And just as you guessed, I put the sign on the door to cover my tracks. Didn’t think I would be seen, didn’t even consider there might be CCTV. I went to Jacob’s, woke him up and told him about Mary and me. I knew he would be angry, that he’d start a fight. I didn’t intend to use the nail gun, to kill him that way. He said some things, and I snapped. The nail gun was there on the coffee table and I shot him.”

“Why did you nail him to the wall,” said Jones.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Alberton, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t realise he was still alive. Not until we got back. I thought having Mary with me would give us both a good alibi. But he was still alive. I told her to go outside and call the police. I finished him off while she was gone, while I thought she was gone. I didn’t know she was watching me. I didn’t want to kill her but she’d given me no choice. I’m glad she isn’t dead. I really do love her. Have done since I first met her.”

“Ever read the bible, Mr. Alberton,” said Barnaby.

“You shall not covet your neighbour’s wife.”

“Or your brother’s,” said Jones.

Alberton’s reaction was unexpected. He burst from his chair, momentum moving him up and over the table toward Jones, his anger controlling his actions. The PC standing close to the door was too far away to react. Jones, his body sick, his mind too tired to comprehend what was about to happen couldn’t get out of the way quick enough. Barnaby, moving at a speed no one would consider him capable, attempted to pull Alberton from the table but the man was too strong, too angry. Not slowing, Alberton slammed into Jones, knocking both the chair and Jones backward, Jones’s skull bouncing off the floor. Alberton raised his right arm, closed his fist and punched Jones in the chest, a heavy blow to the sternum. The weight on his chest left as quickly as it had arrived, Barnaby pulling Alberton away from Jones, passing the suspect off to the uniformed officer. The PC escorted Alberton – kicking and screaming – from the room, leaving Barnaby alone with Jones.

Diaphragm seizing, Jones was unable to take a breath. Panic would do him no good, but trying to stay calm when you couldn’t breathe wasn’t an easy thing to do. Jones rolled onto his right side, chair behind him, wall of the interview room in front of him. Exhaustion overrode the pain, causing his eyes to close, his body grateful it was no longer upright. He could sleep. He wanted to sleep. Pass him a pillow, a thick blanket and leave him the hell alone. Pain, sharp and nagging, fought its way through the fatigue. It caused his anxiety to erupt, his struggles to breathe distressing.

Barnaby, suffering his own bout of panic, rushed to Jones’s side, “Jones!”

Jones could feel Barnaby’s hands on his shoulder, pulling him over and onto his back. Head spinning out of control, diaphragm still refusing to work, lungs struggling for breath, Jones attempted to gain control of his emotions, a panicking Barnaby not helping. His diaphragm had stalled, not died. It would start up again. He just had to wait.

The pain in his chest grew, escalating to a level that made his eyes water. It felt as though a knife had gone through his flesh, stuck between his ribs. Opening his eyes, Jones lifted his head off the floor, glancing downward. Nothing. Shirt still white, tie gone . . . when had that happen. Jones let his head fall back, the soft thump loud in the interview room. 

“You know what’s going on, Ben. We’ve been through this before. Breathe. Just breathe like you would normally. You’re diaphragm will catch up. Just give it a minute.”

Yeah, well, last time he wasn’t suffering from a bout of flu so bad he felt as though he had passed his use-by-date. 

Diaphragm finally kicking in, a feeling of relief flooding his body, Jones took a deep breath, pain stabbing through his chest, his lungs. Another breath, pain refusing to let up. His only consolation, the only thing getting him through it, was that he knew the case was over. He could go home, sleep it off, allow Barnaby to prepare the case for the CPS.

“Jones, you’re making the room look untidy,” said Barnaby.

It was an event just to push himself up onto his elbows, Jones too weak to go any further. Barnaby took his left arm, pulling him up, too fast. Jones’s head spun out of control, stomach rolling downhill at a pace he found difficult to stop. Darkness dug away at his vision, breaking it up. He closed his eyes, his body lethargic, heavy with fatigue. He needed to sleep.

“Ben?”

Suddenly, Jones found himself up against the wall, his body supported, Barnaby’s hand against the side of his face. Opening his eyes, Jones let out a sigh, Barnaby’s touch cool against his heated flesh. If he could move, he would flinch away from the anger on Barnaby’s face, the slight slap against his cheek before his boss removed his hand telling Jones how angry Barnaby was.

“Sorry, sir.”

“You did a good job today,” said Barnaby, sitting on the floor in front of Jones.

Again, not what Jones had expected.

“I got lucky, sir. If Mary Alberton had died the case would have been more difficult.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Jones.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re sick. Flu?

“Yes, sir.”

When Barnaby looked away, Jones knew he was gathering his thoughts, wanting to say more. Jones waited, not sure what his boss was going to say. Barnaby turned back, gaze hard, face neutral.

“If you deliberately go out of your way to lie to me like that again, our collective partnership will be over.”

Knowing the statement was more of a threat than a promise, Jones said, “It was a passive lie, sir.”

“I’ll have to think of a passive punishment then, won’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll drive you home. I don’t want you back until you’re over it.”

The last of his energy gone, Jones could only nod. He knew he had gotten off lightly. He wouldn’t test his boss’s patience again. Not after what Barnaby had said. Collective partnership. Barnaby thought of him more of an equal than a subordinate. He would start acting like an equal; prove Barnaby’s judgment of him was correct.

Turned out, it wasn’t such a bad day after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming next: The Required Shooting


	5. The Required Shooting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long drive to the hospital when your detective sergeant has been shot by an aggressive pig farmer who had been intent on making a killing.

Breath caught in his throat, his lungs hungry for oxygen, John Barnaby struggled to breathe. Death had never felt so close, its touch caressing his flesh, chilling his bones, squeezing his heart. His chest, so tight with fear and worry, ached with a passion, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs not helping. He was unable to move, fight-or-flight response seemingly broken; one for the psychologists as Jones would say. He quickly glanced toward Jones. His sergeant, sent to the floor by a blast from a single-trigger over-under shotgun was slumped against the wall, face hidden, limbs in a tangle, blood pooling beneath him; unconscious or dead, Barnaby didn't know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He had never lost a colleague before, not this way, not in such a physical and violent manner, the thought of the loss tearing at his insides. 

Barnaby knew it was all part of the job, confrontation between a murderer and a copper always a volatile situation but to actually witness this kind of violence against one of his own, against Ben Jones, a man well liked by everyone, including criminals . . . the nightmares would last a life time, Barnaby was sure of that. If he lived a lifetime. The situation he was in dictating that living another thirty years was very unlikely, the probability impossible. 

But fate could be a fickle thing at the best of times . . .

Body frozen, his muscles twitching with adrenaline and fear, Barnaby closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable, for this man to take his life. His last words to his wife, a declaration of love, gave him some comfort at least. Death expected, a slow time coming, Barnaby, to his surprise, began to grow impatient, wishing it were over, the present taking too long to become the past. 

The shotgun blast was deafening, the sound causing his body to flinch, to hunch over toward the right, an attempt to get out of the way. He could smell the cordite, feel the blood splatter across his clothing, his face, bits of bone scraping against his skin. His body in shock, Barnaby waited for the pain, for the chill to fill his bones, his innards. He waited for death. 

When it didn’t come for him, Barnaby opened his eyes and gazed downward, searching his own body for the gunshot wound that should have killed him instantly. Not usually so thick, it took Barnaby longer than it should have to realise he hadn’t suffered a fatal gunshot wound. He wasn’t dead or injured. Far from it in fact. Glancing toward his sergeant, Barnaby prayed Jones hadn’t been shot a second time. Dead or not, the pool of blood beneath Jones had stopped spreading. Barnaby’s heart sank, his gut feeling heavy with the weight of grief. 

Blinking his eyes against the sting of tears, Barnaby turned back to the gunman. Joseph Hanson lay dead on the floor, face gone, the back of his skull spread across the floor behind him. The sight left Barnaby dazed and confused. If the man’s intention had been to take his own life, why had he taken Jones with him? Why couldn’t he have left Jones out of it? Questions he would never be able to answer.

Body filled with dread, Barnaby moved toward Jones, kneeling in front him. He reached for his sergeant, trembling fingers pressing against the carotid pulse point. Shoulders slumping with relief, a smile spreading across his pale features, Barnaby could feel a soft heartbeat beneath skin clammy with shock. Placing his hand against the back of Jones’s head, Barnaby gently lowered him to the floor, straightening tangled limbs. There was no resistance, Jones unconscious, his body refusing to return to a world filled with nothing but fear and pain. 

Pulling Jones’s jacket to the side, Barnaby’s relief was short-lived, his smile quickly crumbling, his heart clenching with fear at the sight of so much blood. Time had barely existed since the first shot and for such a short amount of time, Jones had already lost too much. Fingers, still trembling with fear and shock, lifted the blood sodden shirt away from the wound an inch above Jones’s right hip, tugging it from trousers almost soaked to the knee with blood. So much blood. 

The wound, not as large as Barnaby had expected, looked ugly, flesh torn, purple bruising already forming. The buckshot, spreading out as soon as it had exited the barrel, left an entry wound the size of a small child’s fist, a spattering of buckshot wounds surrounding the main injury. Blood continued to flow, a steady rivulet that needed stopping. 

Think, Barnaby. Think.

Standing up onto unsteady legs, his entire body shaking with anxiety, Barnaby began to search for something he could use to stop the bleeding. He considered calling an ambulance but felt it a waste of time. They were on the other side of Newton Magna, at least twenty minutes away from the nearest ambulance station. Taking in consideration the return journey, Barnaby didn’t think Jones would last that long. Not only would it be quicker if he drove his sergeant to the hospital, it would also give Jones a better chance of survival.

Barnaby hesitated, a feeling of doubt overwhelming him. He looked back over his shoulder, gaze finding Jones’s still form. Stomach bared, the gunshot wound intimidating, the blood still flowing. No, it was the right thing to do. First, he had to find something to stop the blood flow or at least kept it at a bare minimum.

Quickly finding a small bathroom, Barnaby snatched a white towel from the railing on the wall, not caring if it was dirty or clean. It would do. Anything would do. He returned to Jones, dropping to his knees beside his sergeant, pressing the towel against Jones’s side. A soft grunt of surprise escaped Jones, his eyes snapping open.

Barnaby decided it was time to move because a conscious Jones would be easier to get into the car than an unconscious Jones. Placing his right arm under Jones’s shoulders, Barnaby lifted his sergeant up into a sitting position. The result was unexpected, Jones’s response lethargic, barely there. Jones wasn’t feeling a lot of pain and that was not a good sign. When Jones’s head fell back against Barnaby’s shoulder, he took a moment to re-check his pulse, rapid but weak. So close, he could feel his sergeant’s shallow breath against his face, could notice the sweat forming on cool, pale, clammy skin. Things had just become serious, the symptoms of shock worsening, becoming life threatening. 

They had to move.

Now.

“Ben,” said Barnaby, gently slapping the side of Jones’s face in an attempt to get him focused. “You have to stand up. We have to go. Now.”

Jones let out a deep sigh, a grimace of pain crossing his features, and closed his eyes.

Without hesitation, Barnaby applied more pressure to the wound, his sergeant’s eyes once again snapping open. A whisper of profanity from Jones before he turned his gaze toward Barnaby.

“You have to stand up, Ben. No arguments. No excuses. Just do it. Get up!”

Barnaby knew his words hadn’t been convincing. It was the fear in his voice that had gotten Jones moving, his sergeant quickly understanding that something was seriously wrong. Jones didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t offer any excuses. He simply did as Barnaby told him. But as much as Jones tried – and he tried – he didn’t have the strength, knees buckling beneath him with every attempt to stand up. 

Knowing he was going to need both hands, Barnaby pushed the towel under the band of Jones’s trousers and taking an assertive hold he pushed upward with his knees, bringing his sergeant with him. Barnaby felt the pain pulling at his back, the muscles beginning to spasm. Jones was heavier than he looked, almost a dead weight. 

They began to move through the cottage, the long hallway toward the front door, Jones stumbling all the way, Barnaby straining his back to keep his sergeant from falling. Progress was slow but they eventually made it to the car, Jones becoming weaker with every step. Barnaby leant Jones against the car, using the solid object as a crutch, keeping Jones upright with one hand while using the other to open the car door. Gently lowering Jones into the passenger seat Barnaby realised he was about to lose Jones, his sergeant’s consciousness fading. In an attempt to put Jones into the shock position, Barnaby lowered the seat back, placing Jones in a horizontal position, lifting his knees, elevating his legs. Could be better but it would have to do.

Again, Barnaby hesitated, still unsure if he was doing the right thing. His worried gaze travelled over Jones’s body, finally coming to a rest on his sergeant’s face, the skin so pale. The sight of bluish lips almost stopped Barnaby’s heart, the fear biting into his chest. Shock. Plain, simple and it could be a killer. If Jones went into hypovolemic shock, he wouldn’t make it to the hospital. In a panic, Barnaby slammed the door shut, Jones’s body flinching away in surprise; not yet unconscious. 

Rushing to the other side of the car, Barnaby opened the door and practically threw himself into the driver’s seat. Lacking a blanket to keep Jones warm, Barnaby started the car and turned on the heater. After one more glance at Jones, he released the hand break and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. 

Leaving Joseph Hanson to wallow in death and self-pity, Barnaby sped away from the cottage, his sergeant at death’s door in the passenger seat.

.  
.  
.

Nerves shredded by fear and frustration, Barnaby drove like a madman; car engine roaring, siren blaring, the speed limit broken many times over. Beside him, Jones laid unconscious, breath so shallow Barnaby was unsure if his sergeant was still breathing. Barnaby was losing hope, his grief strangling him, his own breath harsh. If they didn’t make it, if Jones . . . Taking a deep breath, he glanced toward his sergeant before returning his gaze back to the long stretch of road that would take them straight into Causton.

Jones had surprised him, not exactly what he had expected when Tom Barnaby had informed him that Ben Jones had the right stuff. Smart, loyal, very trusting and with a sense of humour that left John Barnaby shaking his head in confusion on the best of days. This man who enjoyed the simple things in life – never before had Barnaby seen anyone take such joy in forcing open a door - was going to die and Barnaby could do nothing about it. 

He felt so helpless, so afraid.

Barnaby leant to the left and raised a hand sticky with congealing blood, his emotions building, breaking, the fear tearing through him. He placed the back of his hand in front of Jones’s mouth and waited for what felt like an eternity.

A small, ragged puff of breath.

Overwhelmed with relief, Barnaby choked on the emotion rising into his throat. Jones was still alive, but for how long, Barnaby didn’t know. 

Eyes on the road, Barnaby moved his hand upward, his own heated flesh against Jones’s forehead; skin cold, sweaty, clammy with shock, even in the suffocating heat the car heater had created. He returned his hand to Jones’s side, once again applying pressure to the wound. Jones moved beneath him; the weak attempt to move away from the source of pain a failure. Becoming restless, Jones lifted his head, his legs shifting, knees hitting the dashboard. In his weakened state, he didn’t get very far, body quickly becoming still.

Barnaby, heart in his stomach, feared the worse.

Up ahead, congesting traffic, all but one vehicle scattering out of his way. Coming up behind the car in front, Barnaby realised the driver was refraining from obeying the road rules, plodding along at a sedate pace. Fearing that Jones was no longer with him, Barnaby – with no intention of slowing down – pressed the heel of his right hand against the horn in the steering wheel; he wasn’t going to lose this game of reversed chicken.

Left hand now gripping Jones’s belt, keeping his sergeant in place, Barnaby expertly manouvered his car around the vehicle, back wheels screaming along the edge of the road. Jones began to slip away from him, body moving with the momentum of the car. Barnaby heard a soft, painful grunt as Jones hit the passenger door. Still alive. Barnaby struggled to pull Jones back into a horizontal position, losing his grip on the blood soaked clothing. 

Minutes away from Causton General Hospital, Barnaby had to slow down, the traffic stubborn, almost coming to a stop as they tried to move out of his way. He could feel his heart breaking. He wasn’t going to give up now. Not now. They were so close. Barnaby snapped the steering wheel to the right, driving the car into the oncoming traffic.

Drivers panicked, horns sounded and cars moved out of his way. 

Pulling up outside the Emergency Department, Barnaby slammed his foot on the brake, Jones almost sliding off the seat as a result. A funny sight if things weren’t so serious. Pressing down on the horn, Barnaby, wincing at the sound, refused to let up until someone with medical training came to his aid. He didn’t have to wait long. Seconds had barely passed before a female nurse was opening the passenger door, reaching in toward his sergeant, fingers pressing against the pulse point in Jones’s neck. 

Expecting the worse, Barnaby held his breath, releasing it when the nurse called out over her shoulder. Blood pounding through his ears, Barnaby couldn’t hear what she was saying. She turned back to him, her mouth moving, her voice muffled.

“What happened?”

“He was shot,” said Barnaby, his voice shaking, cracking.

Everything seemed to happen at once. A small crowd of medical personnel removed Jones from the car, his body limp as they placed him onto a gurney, blood persistently dripping from his side. Barnaby, not wanting to be left behind, followed as they disappeared through a set of sliding doors, running to keep up. Keys left in the ignition, engine still running; someone else would move his car.

Calmer than Barnaby felt they should be, their emotions controlled, the medical staff rushed Jones through the waiting room, through the security doors and into one of the main trauma rooms. Barnaby, his adrenaline diminishing, his fear growing and unwilling to lose sight of his sergeant, kept pace with the gurney. 

They were quick; stripping Jones of his clothing, inserting IV’s into both arms, placing a pulse monitor on his right forefinger, a blood pressure cuff around his left arm. One nurse came toward Barnaby, asking the victim’s name. 

Barnaby could only whisper, his voice choked with emotion, “Ben Jones. Detective Sergeant Ben Jones.”

“Has he been admitted to this hospital before?”

“What?”

“If he’s been admitted on another occasion we’ll have his medical history on record,” said the nurse. “Blood type for example.”

“A Positive,” said Barnaby, thankful for the distraction, even if it was only momentary. “And yes, almost two years ago, concussion. He had to get at least eight stitches. Stayed overnight. He didn’t--”

With a thank you and a smile of understanding on her face, the nurse walked away, speaking to the doctor before finding the closest computer terminal, fingers dancing across the keyboard.

Distraction gone, Barnaby listened to the conversation between nurses and doctors, their words blunt and honest, one particular phrase loud and clear to Barnaby; hypovolemic shock. They were losing him. Barnaby felt his legs weaken. Collapsing into the nearest chair, he removed his phone, finding a name in the contact list, fingers vibrating with anxiety making it difficult. He couldn’t do this alone. He needed his own support. When the call went through, he struggled to speak, “Sarah . . .”

.  
.  
.

Scared and confused, Barnaby had lost control of the situation, his sergeant’s life in someone else’s hands. He had no knowledge of what was happening; only that Jones was now in surgery, death still knocking on his front door. It left him feeling helpless, unable to do anything but wait. With a deep breath of impending grief, Barnaby lowered his head, blood stained fingers wiping the moisture from his eyes. 

Analysing his emotions, Barnaby couldn’t understand his reaction, Jones more of a colleague than a friend. He put it all down to adrenaline, fear and shock, almost losing his own life. If Hanson hadn’t turned the shotgun on himself. A tremor of fear ran along Barnaby’s spine, the emotion expected.

Brain scrambled, emotional one moment, confused and detached the next, Barnaby realised he was trying to distance himself, unwilling to admit, even to himself that he had grown attached to his sergeant and wasn’t prepared to treat Jones’s forthcoming death as part of the job. Jones deserved better. 

Obvious denial. The first stage of grief. He didn’t want to grieve, easier to pretend he didn’t care, harder to break down. Emotions running unchecked, Barnaby rested his head in the palms of his hands, choking on the sob rising in his throat, chest tight with grief.

“John.”

This is what he had wanted, his wife, her support, but he couldn’t stand up, muscles weak, trembling with emotion. He lowered his hands, eyes red, face pale, unable to voice what he wanted to say, his emotions speaking for him. Barnaby watched through blurred vision as she rushed toward him, her own features reflecting what he was feeling. He’d given her the wrong impression.

He could feel her hands on him, her warm flesh against his face, ignoring the blood on his skin, “Oh, John. I’m so sorry.”

Barnaby felt terrible, emotions keeping him from correcting his mistake. He needed to calm down. He had to distract himself, stop thinking the worse. Think of something else. Anything else. Denial, that’s the key. Deny. Distract. Taking a deep breath, swallowing the grief that refused to back down, Barnaby began to talk.

“No. I’m sorry, no. I didn’t mean,” said Barnaby. “He’s in surgery.”

Sarah sat down in the chair next to her husband, her hands gripping his, not wanting to let go. “Have they told you anything? Is he going to be all right?”

Barnaby shook his head. “I don’t know. He lost so much blood. Hypovolemic shock.”

A distraction, his wife forcing him to focus on something else, “John. What happened?”

“It was routine. Talk to the family, the friends of the victim. Joseph Hanson, friend of the deceased. His front door was open. Jones went in first . . .” Barnaby shook his head, closing his eyes, gathering his thoughts, his emotions, the shotgun blast now on repeat somewhere in the back of his mind. “First sign of trouble, Jones always goes first. I don’t ask and he doesn’t stop to think about it, he just does it. We went into the living room. Hanson shot him. No provocation. He just shot him. I thought he was dead. Hanson turned the gun on me. I don’t know why. Don’t think I’ll ever know why. Not unless he was the murderer. Hanson shot himself instead of me.”

When Sarah wrapped her arms around him, Barnaby responded, holding her tight. He could feel the emotions trembling through her limbs. She was only just keeping it together, fond of Jones, his company enjoyed. His sergeant had brought her flowers when she’d arrived in Midsomer, a friendship assured. She spoke, her breath warm against the side of his face, “Have you called Ben’s grandmother?”

Pulling away from his wife, his eyes wide with shock, Barnaby shook his head. “I can’t, not until I know. Good news or bad.”

“John, she needs to know.”

“I know,” said Barnaby. “I can’t. I can’t tell her she’s going to lose her grandson. The way he talks about her . . . I can’t meet her this way.”

“Are you okay?”

Barnaby shook his head. No. “I didn’t think I would react this way. It’s Jones.”

“You keep yourself at a distance,” said Sarah, cupping the side of his face in the palm of her right hand. “You tell yourself you don’t care so when something like this happens you don’t have to care. But you do care. You care too much. And yes, it’s Jones. You can’t help but like him no matter how hard you try not to.”

Guilt stopping him from smiling, Barnaby nodded in agreement. He had tried hard not to like Jones, especially during those first few weeks, but Jones, like a stray dog not ready to give up, persistent, likeable. Barnaby hadn’t even realised how close Jones had gotten, friendship hidden by a working relationship.

“DCI Barnaby?”

Without thinking, Barnaby stood up, weak limbs unable to support him, falling back down onto the plastic chair. His hands shook, his heart rate increased, the anxiety biting at his insides. He was expecting the worst. Sarah, the love of his life, understood, taking control of the situation so he didn’t have to.

“Doctor,” said Sarah, pausing, hesitating. 

“Doctor Henry, I’m the admitting Doctor.” Young, short, chubby, but with a confidence that reassured Barnaby.

“How is he?”

“In ICU in a critical but stable condition. Barring any complications, he should be fine.”

Barnaby felt his entire body sag with relief.

Doctor Henry stepped closer. “I understand you didn’t call an ambulance. You drove the patient here?”

Waiting for the judgement, for this man to question his decision, Barnaby stood up, his emotions once again unbalanced. “It would have taken too long for an ambulance to arrive.”

“You did the right thing,” said Henry. “You saved his life.”

“He’s going to be fine?” 

“As you know, he went into hypovolemic shock. We had to give him two blood transfusions and plenty of fluids. His blood pressure and blood count have already improved but we’ll continue to monitor him closely over the next twenty-four hours. A continuity of tests. Blood count. His urine output so we can keep an eye on his kidney function. And when he wakes up we’ll be able to determine if there’s any brain damage, but, as I said, as long as there aren’t any complications, he’ll be fine.”

“Brain damage?”

“With such a severe loss of blood . . . well, there’s a lot less oxygen in the body,” said Henry, his gaze shifting between John and Sarah Barnaby. “But he’s still young, fit and healthy and we got to him in time. He should be fine.”

“You keep saying ‘should’,” said Barnaby.

“He’ll be fine.”

Barnaby nodded his gratitude, his heart heavy with relief. “Thank you.”

“You can go see him if you like. And, as long as you don’t impede his medical care, you can stay as long as you want or need to.”

“I have to contact his grandmother,” said Barnaby, thinking it would be better to visit her in person, not the sort of thing you could talk about over the phone; reassure her with a physical presence. If need be, allow her to cry on his shoulder, allow her to slap him across the face for not taking better care of her grandson. Bring her to the hospital; sit with her, support her. Barnaby fell back into his seat, fingers gripping his wife’s hand, his emotions now under control. “I’ll go and see her, bring her back.”

Sense of humour similar to Jones, Henry said, “Take your time, he’s not going anywhere.”

Barnaby smiled, his relief evident. If the doctor could make a joke at a time like this, even a bad one . . . Jones was going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Coming Next:** The Obligated Angst-Ridden Situation


	6. The Necessary Angst-Ridden Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s natural to grieve when someone you love dies, but how do you grieve when you refuse to accept their death.

John Barnaby, bored and restless on a quiet Friday afternoon was ready to chuck it all in and go home. His gaze shifted between the pile of must-be-completed-before-Monday paperwork on his desk and the exit. He wanted to go home, weekend visitors arriving in less than an hour, the paperwork the only thing keeping him from leaving. Jones, a well-trained lackey, obedient and loyal, normally did the paperwork, keeping on top of it on a daily basis but Barnaby had been without his sergeant for over a week now, a nasty case of influenza putting Jones into a near permanent horizontal position, incomplete paperwork growing into a resentful pile.

Needing to make a quick decision, not wanting to spend all afternoon making up his mind, Barnaby thought of what the consequences of not doing the paperwork would be. Repercussions looking not too bad, he made his decision; can’t have Jones feeling redundant when he returned to work on Monday. Child-like smile creeping over his features, Barnaby picked up the tower of paperwork, files stumbling in his grasp and leant forward, his intention to put it where it belonged; on his sergeant’s desk. He glanced around the office, the room mostly empty, searching for unwanted witnesses, spotting someone he hadn’t expected to see today. Ben Jones, pale, thinner than he was a week ago, his expression unreadable, walked into the office.

Caught in the act, Barnaby fell back into his seat, paperwork collapsing into an untidy heap on his desk. Someone was trying to tell him something. A subtle omen if there ever was one. He opened the top folder, gaze skimming the contents, a pretence that he was working, not allocating an unwanted task back to his sergeant.

Stopping in front of his desk, Jones smiled, green eyes in disagreement with his facial expression, “Sir?”

“Jones,” said Barnaby, gaze lifting, look of surprise not quite believable. “I wasn’t expecting you back until Monday.”

“Thought I’d get started on that paperwork,” said Jones, nodding toward the mound of uncoordinated folders on Barnaby’s desk.

Barnaby nodded, the movement riddled with guilt. “Actually, I was just making a start on it.”

“Yeah, well, now you don’t have to.”

“I knew you were good for something, Jones,” said Barnaby.

Coming around to Barnaby’s side of the desk, Jones’s smile faltered. Barnaby regretted his words, his sergeant’s mind and body still under the control of physical exhaustion, not yet ready for their usual playful banter. He watched as Jones gathered the folders into an awkward embrace before returning to his desk, dropping into his chair.

Narrowing his eyes, Barnaby studied his sergeant, taking a few moments before making a sympathetic effort to make up for his previous comment, “You look tired.”

Ignoring the statement, Jones pulled the top folder from the pile, opening it, and frowning down at the sight before him, said, “This should have been done on Wednesday.”

Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, Barnaby said, “Really.”

Pen in hand, Jones began to work, quickly and quietly filling in the form before putting it to the side, picking up another one, repeating the process. 

Feeling dismissed, Barnaby considered taking advantage of the opportunity given to him and going home, paperwork now in Jones’s more than capable hands. Lips pursed, he decided to wait a few more minutes, not rush out the door as soon as he was able, leaving Jones to feel like a used and abused lackey. Looking for something to do, Barnaby spotted the tea lady, wheels of her trolley screaming in protest. She paused, eyebrow rising, asking a repetitive question. Tea? Not for Barnaby, but Jones looked as though he could do with a good dose of caffeine. 

“Coffee?”

Refusing to look up, Jones said, “No, thank you.”

The tea lady moved on, Jones’s response giving her a satisfactory answer. 

More bored than he had been, Barnaby decided to converse with his sergeant, anything to pass the time, even if Jones’s responses were mere grunts of frustration when constantly interrupted; find joy in the little things.

“You got over the flu all right then?”

Barnaby noticed the slight pause, pen hovering before continuing. “Yeah.”

Everything shifted. Hairs tingling on the back of his neck, an uncomfortable sensation crawling along his spine, Barnaby got the sudden impression that something wasn’t right in the world of Ben Jones. Feeling the worry, the concern beginning to nag at his insides, stomach feeling as though he’d eaten something rotten, Barnaby asked, “Everything all right, Jones?”

“Everything’s fine, sir,” said Jones, still not looking up.

“It’s just . . .” Barnaby hesitated, taking a calming breath. “You seem a bit off.”

“I’ve been off. Flu and all that.”

“Right,” said Barnaby, nodding in agreement before getting to the point. “Just seems like there’s more to it than that.”

Looking up, Jones lowered his pen, paperwork forgotten, his expression suspicious, challenging. A side to his sergeant Barnaby didn’t see very often. “Don’t psychoanalyse me, sir.”

A definite confirmation that something was wrong. Being a detective, Barnaby decided it was time to detect, find out what was bothering Jones. 

“Why not?”

“Why not?”

“Yes,” said Barnaby. “Why not?”

“Because there’s no reason to,” said Jones, his mood changing, becoming defensive. “There’s nothing bothering me. I’m fine. Just tired.”

His sergeant, never a good liar, looked more than tired. He looked wrong.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what, sir?”

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

“Sir! There’s nothing bothering me. I was sick with flu. That’s all.”

Barnaby nodded, “No. That’s not all. There’s something else.”

“What are you trying to say,” said Jones. “That I’m lying?”

“Of course not. But you’re not being truthful. To yourself or to me.”

“How’s this for truthful? Mind your own business.”

Barnaby smiled but there was no humour behind the expression, his patience beginning to wane, his anger growing. He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the desk and watched his sergeant, his scrutiny causing Jones to fidget, his sergeant’s body language becoming passive.

“It’s my business if it affects your ability to do your job.”

“It won’t, sir.”

“So, there is something wrong.”

“No, sir. There isn’t.”

Thinking it was the end of the conversation, Jones returned to his paperwork, eyes glazed, hands trembling so much he held the pen in a grip that turned his knuckles white. Barnaby decided not to push it, Jones obviously not in the mood to surrender any significant information as to what was bothering him. Whatever it was, it was serious. Oh no. No. No. No. Feeling like someone punched him in the gut, breath stolen, chest tight with an ache so severe, Barnaby thought his world was turning upside down. 

“Ben?”

Jones let out an aggravated breath, his tension building, stubborn gaze downward. “Sir?”

“Are you . . . sick?”

“Not anymore.”

“I mean . . . Is it something more serious than the flu?”

Jones, confused by the question, looked up, taking a moment to understand, his expression dropping. “No, sir. I’m fine.”

Barnaby actually believed him. If it wasn’t physical, it had to be emotional. “Then what is it?”

Expression much like a puppy on its deathbed, Jones said, “Sir, please. Can you just leave it alone?”

“Then promise me one thing, Jones,” said Barnaby, defeat sending him slumping back into his seat, body sagging. “When you’re ready to talk, you’ll come to me.”

“If it keeps you out of my business.”

Insubordinate sod.

“Jones, just so we understand each other,” said Barnaby. “Drop the attitude.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Jones, fingers of his right hand rubbing painfully against his forehead as he let out a long, suffering sigh. “I didn’t mean . . . please. Just leave it.”

“Headache?”

“Yeah.”

“Go back home, Jones. I’ll do the paperwork.”

“Sir, if I spend another day at home . . . I now know the name of every character on EastEnders.”

“That’s a lot,” said Barnaby, shifting uncomfortably in his seat when he noticed the look his sergeant was giving him. “Sykes likes to watch it.”

“Of course he does, sir.”

Barnaby relaxed, the tension between the two of them easing. Maybe it was for the better that he leave it alone, give his sergeant time to sort himself out, allow him to talk when he was ready because, right now, Jones wasn’t a willing participant in the conversation. Jones wasn’t ready to talk, nothing Barnaby could say that would get him to the stage of letting go. 

Knowing a change of topic was required, a subject that would be more interesting to Jones, Barnaby said, “I’ve got some news that should cheer you up.” 

Jones grimaced, “Do I look like I need cheering up?”

“Now that you mention it . . . Tom and Joyce are down for the weekend.”

“That’s supposed to cheer me up, is it, sir?”

Not the response he was expecting. Even more worried, and now slightly confused, Barnaby said, “I was going to call you tonight, but since you’re here. We’re having a small get-together tomorrow. Some of Tom and Joyce’s friends are going to come over. Drinks. Finger food. Joyce’s vacation movies. That sort of thing. Tom was hoping you’d come.” 

His expression turning sullen, guilty, Jones said, “I can’t.”

“They’re looking forward to seeing you,” said Barnaby.

“I’ve got something else on.”

“Bring her with you.” 

Jones laughed, the sound empty, hollow. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? We don’t bite.”

Shaking his head, Jones looked downward, staring at his hands. “Just . . . no.”

“Change your plans then.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“Sir . . . I can’t change my plans. I can’t bring her with me. I can’t . . .”

“Sunday then,” said Barnaby. “Dinner. Just the five of us. You can bring your . . . friend.”

Wiping his hands over his face, through his hair, the movement aggressive, painful almost, Jones sat further back into his chair, fingers gripping the back of his neck, holding it in a tight uncompromising grip.

The sight was distressing for Barnaby. To know that something was wrong and to not be able to do anything to help, Jones unwilling to accept Barnaby’s help making the situation worse, more emotional. Barnaby sat forward once more, forearms back on the desk, hands clasped together and perceptive enough to know the answer to his suggestion, said, “If you don’t come on Sunday, they’re going to show up on your doorstep.”

“You’re right, sir,” said Jones, hands falling to his sides, body language defeated.

“As always, Jones.”

Jones stood up, stepping away from his chair, his desk, unable to keep still. “I should go home.”

“Sunday? Three o’clock.”

It was like pulling teeth.

“Yes, sir.”

“Jones?”

Pausing, Jones turned around, “Sir?”

Barnaby frowned, Jones’s expression shifting, changing too quickly, his mood turning sombre. 

“If you need to talk before Sunday, call me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barnaby watched as Jones left the office, his sergeant ignoring those around him, pushing through a small crowd of uniformed officers. Mind churning, psychology degree useful, Barnaby came to a sudden realisation. Jones seemed to be depressed. Not a word Barnaby wanted to use, but it fit, the underlying cause of the depression unknown. Not for long though, Barnaby’s intention to find the cause, come up with a solution to help his sergeant through an emotional crisis that had left him in a mood so low . . . no, Jones wasn’t going to go through it alone. Barnaby smiled, the knowledge that Jones wasn’t going to be able to say no to Tom Barnaby giving him a small amount of comfort. 

.  
.  
.

Standing at the front window, John Barnaby watched the street, his driveway, looking for a familiar car; Ben Jones was an hour late. His sergeant wasn’t coming, Barnaby was sure of that, opportunity to find out what was wrong now gone. If he thought Jones would answer, he would call him; berate him for changing his plans, staying at home, tail between his legs, instead of showing up on the Barnaby’s doorstep, bottle of red wine in hand. Not yet ready to turn away, to dismiss his sergeant, Barnaby continued to wait, deciding to give Jones another ten minutes before giving up and returning to his guests. 

Heart pounding, worry grating at his nerves, Barnaby stepped back from the window. Pivoting on his heels, he saw movement in his peripheral, Jones’s Ford Mondeo pulling into the driveway. About to move toward the front door, Barnaby paused as he noticed his sergeant’s reluctance to get out of the car. Jones sat still, seconds passing before he leant forward, forehead resting against the steering wheel. It was obvious to Barnaby that his sergeant didn’t want to be here, given no choice in the matter, pushed into a social gathering he wanted no part of; this was going to make things more difficult, Jones’s mood no doubt more defensive that passive. 

Seconds becoming minutes, Barnaby decided he could watch no more, stepping to the front door, opening it. He pretended not to notice his sergeant’s body jerking upward in surprise, unaware Barnaby had been watching him. Barnaby waited patiently on the front door step as Jones got out of the car, as he began walking to the front door, bringing with him a bouquet of flowers and an expensive bottle of Scotch. The sight of jeans and shirt showed Barnaby how much weight Jones had lost over the last week. Pushing the thought aside, Barnaby smiled in greeting, not failing to notice when Jones didn’t smile in return.

Feeling guilty for putting Jones in what was so obviously an unwelcomed situation, Barnaby said, “Jones, I’m glad you made it.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Jones, body language now unreadable. “Something came up. I couldn’t get here sooner.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No, sir, just problematic.”

“Need any help sorting it,” said Barnaby, hand now on his sergeant’s shoulder, gently pushing an uncooperative Jones into the house.

“No, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Barnaby paused, gaze narrowing in suspicion. He pulled Jones to the side, closing the door before stepping into his sergeant’s personal space. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

“Sir,” said Jones, stepping back, shoulders against the wall. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. Just pack it in, okay.”

Still defensive. Still angry. 

Now would not be the right time to push Jones emotionally, the opportunity to walk out the front door too available, too easy. Nodding in agreement, Barnaby stepped to the side, gesturing to his sergeant to move further into the house. Jones hesitated, unsure of himself, before moving forward, Barnaby stepping into line behind him. He could see the anxiety running throughout Jones’s body, the limbs trembling. Barnaby hoped he was doing the right thing, not wanting to divide their growing friendship. Jones was his sergeant, but he was also the closest thing Barnaby had to a friend. Not willing to spend time getting to know other people, Barnaby was content with his own company, the company of his wife, of Sykes. Happy families. But there were times when Barnaby needed male friendship, someone to have a beer with, even if it was Jones. His sergeant was good company, easy to talk to, quick to make a joke. But not today. 

Jones walked into the kitchen, hesitating once more, actually taking a step backward, bumping into Barnaby who had stopped behind him. Barnaby became concerned, worried that Jones’s problem might have something to do with Tom Barnaby, and if that were the case, things were going to go bad very quickly. No, that couldn’t be it. Jones had looked troubled, depressed before Barnaby had mentioned Tom and Joyce. But there had to be a reason Jones was so reluctant to see them both, not willing to change yesterday’s plans, hesitant about coming here today. 

“Ben!” Joyce Barnaby stood up from the kitchen table, magazine quickly forgotten as she made her way toward Jones, embracing him in a strong grip. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Mrs. Barnaby,” said Jones, unable to return the hug, hands full with flowers and alcohol. “It’s good to see you too.”

Joyce released her hold, stepping back, her gaze giving Jones the once over. “John said you’d been sick with the flu.”

“Is that a polite way of saying I look terrible?”

“You look tired. You haven’t been sleeping have you?”

“Still trying to catch up,” said Jones, handing her the flowers he’d bought. “For you, Mrs. Barnaby.”

“Always the gentleman,” said Joyce, taking the flowers, admiring them, admiring Jones. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“Where’s Mr. Barnaby?”

“Outside helping Sarah work the bar-b-que.” 

Throughout the conversation, Barnaby had watched Jones, looking for any sign of anger toward Joyce; there was none. But there also hadn’t been any joy, his face lacking an authentic smile, the expression forced. Jones was putting up a false front, doing his part, behaving in a way Joyce Barnaby had expected. 

“I’ll just . . .” Jones nodded toward the back door, quickly moving away.

Barnaby began to follow Jones, stopping when Joyce pulled him back. He raised an eyebrow, questioning her, not liking the question when it came, her face full of concern.

“What’s wrong with Ben?”

“I don’t know,” said Barnaby. “He won’t talk to me.”

“He’s not . . .” 

“He told me it was just the flu and I believe him.”

“But he won’t tell you anything else,” said Joyce.

“No, and when I ask, he gets defensive and angry. I don’t want to push him.”

“Do you think he’ll talk to Tom?”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

.  
.  
.

But Jones had refused to talk to Tom Barnaby, threatening to leave when Tom pushed a little too hard, questioning Jones in much the same way he would have questioned a suspect. Barnaby, recognising Jones’s volatile body language had put a stop to the conversation, pulling Tom aside, explaining that pushing Jones wasn’t going to help. From that point on, Jones had been unable to keep up the charade that everything in his world was just fine and dandy, everyone now aware of his emotional instability, worried that he was going to break, snap at any moment. Dinner had become an awkward affair, the dialogue scattered, stilted, any attempt to draw Jones into the conversation a failure; short, terse answers an obvious indication that something was wrong. Appetites were lacking, the delicious meal lost to anxiety and concern, the dinner ending abruptly when Sarah Barnaby asked an unchallenging question, one that should have been simple to answer, the response unexpected.

“Ben,” said Sarah. “How’s your Gran?”

And there it was. 

Jones’s reaction explaining everything to John Barnaby. 

His sergeant’s body sagged, shoulders slumping, expression emotional, no longer able to hide what was bothering him. Barnaby, knowing that Jones would rather walk out than show his emotions in front of everyone, took his sergeant by the elbow, pulling him from his seat, leading him outside. When Tom stood up, Barnaby shook his head, telling his cousin to stay where he was, to give them some time alone.

In the few moments it had taken Barnaby to get Jones outside, his sergeant had gathered his wits together, placing his emotions back behind the wall he’d been struggling to keep upright. He sat Jones down in one of the garden seats, pulling the other chair around so he was facing Jones. Sitting down, knees almost touching the man in front of him, Barnaby refused to beat about the bush, slamming Jones with a question so obvious to Barnaby, it hurt to speak.

“When did your Gran die?”

The question did its job, Jones’s wall crumbling, the strength of it forcing him forward, head down, hands shaking, his refusal to answer more than a symptom of denial. 

“You don’t have to hide your emotions from me, Ben,” said Barnaby. “You can talk to me. You know that.”

Voice hoarse, emotional, Jones said, “Grieving may be universal but we must express it in our own unique way. John Barnaby, 1988, Durham University. And I choose to express my grief in silence. In private.”

“To do so, you first need to accept her death.”

“I’m not ready.”

“You can’t ignore what happened. Look what it’s been doing to you. You’re angry, defensive, depressed. You’ve lost weight, you’re not sleeping--” 

“I thought denial was the first stage of grief. What I’m feeling is supposed to be natural.”

“Your denial needs to be felt in a healthy way. You need to allow yourself to feel it, allow it to happen. You’re not doing that. You’re fighting it all the way and that isn’t good for you.”

Lifting his head, Jones began to laugh, an emotional sob interrupting, his hand covering his eyes. “I can’t. I’m not ready to feel that kind of emotion. I don’t want to feel it.”

“You need to feel it.”

Jones lowered his head, a sigh escaping, left hand holding its position, hiding his eyes. 

Shifting forward in his seat, Barnaby asked, “When did your Gran die?”

“Last Friday. Massive stroke apparently. No chance to say goodbye.”

Barnaby nodded in understanding, “Her funeral was yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jones lowered his hand and look up, his eyes wet. “This is why. I knew you would push me to feel something I’m not ready to feel.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

Looking away, Jones said nothing.

Barnaby recognised the signs; Jones was shutting down. He couldn’t allow that, denial was a natural response but Jones was doing more than denying his grandmother’s death, he was trying to erase it. He had to force Jones to break down, hating himself for what he was about to say.

“You should have told me,” said Barnaby. “I would have liked to have gone to the funeral.”

Jones doubled over with the grief, hands hiding his emotions. Barnaby leaned forward, arms embracing his sergeant, pulling the younger man close. The physical contact, something Jones had obviously not allowed to happen in the past week, left him struggling for control.

“Ben, let it out.”

And he did, shoulders hitching, chest heaving as he fought through the tears to take a breath. Barnaby held tight, unwilling to let Jones go. 

It was a start. A step in the right direction for Jones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My muse refused to include Tom Barnaby and if I had argued, this chapter would have remained unfinished. Other than that, I hope you enjoyed reading these one-shots as much as I enjoyed writing them.


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